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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016805">the most important thing (isn't baseball)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieWrites/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles'>hudders-and-hiddles (LeslieWrites)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the most important thing [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Baseball, Baseball, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV David Rose, Pining, Romcoms as plot devices, Slow Burn, Zero apologies to the Boston Red Sox for what I've done</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:40:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>64,595</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26016805</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieWrites/pseuds/hudders-and-hiddles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>David Rose insists he is done letting baseball players into his bed and his life.</p><p>Of course, it would be easier to believe him if he could stop thinking about the cute but cocky catcher he met at his parents’ annual All-Star party.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the most important thing [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>747</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>831</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. play ball</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I don’t think you actually need much baseball knowledge to enjoy this story, and you can probably just skip most of the terms you don’t know and be fine. However, a basic understanding of gameplay will certainly enhance the experience, so if you need a primer, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skOsApsF0jQ">this video</a> will give you a basic rundown in just 3 minutes. On the occasions when I use terms not mentioned there that are essential to the story, I’ve put in clickable footnotes—click to jump down to the note, then click the arrow to jump back up. I’m a trivia buff, so I might throw some fun facts and interesting tidbits into the notes, too, just because I can.</p><p>The general idea for this fic came from <a href="https://wild-aloof-rebel.tumblr.com/post/183965802044/davidpatrick-au-where-patrick-is-a-professional">an anonymous ask</a> I got over on tumblr well over a year ago now, and they were kind enough to allow me to take the idea and run with it (thank you, anon!). The title comes from a Yogi Berra quote which is included at the start of this first chapter, and it was the first thing that came to mind when I read that ask.</p><p>Last but certainly not least, massive thanks to my beta, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cromarty/pseuds/cromarty">Claire</a>, for cheering on this fic from the very start and providing heaps of reassurance every time I struggled. I know it was a big job, and I am so thankful for all of your feedback and handholding and kindness. We may not have gotten to go to a game together this year like we’d planned, but at least we have this (and yelling about broadcast games over Zoom). This fic legitimately wouldn’t exist without you. U rule u 💗💗💗</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p><em>“Love is the most important thing in the world,</em><br/>
<em>but baseball is pretty good, too.” - Yogi Berra</em></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When he thinks back on it later, what David will remember most is the smell of the grass: the earthy-sweet scent of it hovering like a fog over the darkened stretch of field behind his family home. His father had built the diamond for him for his tenth birthday in an attempt to interest him in the family business. (The team would come later—an equally ill-conceived gift for his bar mitzvah.) But what David had wanted for both, and for every holiday, birthday, and gift-giving occasion in between, was a nose job, and so he’d turned up his poorly-shaped nose at the diamond (and later the team) and vowed never to set foot on it, not once. It’s a promise he’d kept for twenty-two years. But the night he looks out from the veranda to see an unfamiliar moonlit silhouette at home plate, barely visible in the distant dark, curiosity gets the better of him, leading him to that long-ignored patch of green.</p><p>And there, amongst the chirps of the crickets and the croaks of the frogs, with the fresh, damp scent of the grass soaking into his suit, David Rose meets Patrick Brewer for the very first time.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It’s a sweltering, sticky morning in SoHo, made worse by the lack of air conditioning, but no one can make it out to check on the HVAC system until next week, so for now there isn’t much David can do other than deal with it. The big, double doors that stand wide to the street let in the familiar, soothing sounds of the city but not much in the way of a breeze, and he checks the time on his phone yet again. As he swipes carefully at the sweat beading across his brow—<em>gross</em>—Stevie finally wanders in, giant iced coffees in both hands.</p><p>“Don’t start,” she says, cutting off his tirade and shoving the paler of the two coffees in his direction. “They were out of caramel at the one on the corner, so I walked six blocks down to the other location, where they were out of skim. How the fuck does a coffee shop run out of milk?” She takes a sip of her own coffee, probably fortified with several extra shots of espresso since it is daylight outside after all, and the tight line of her shoulders ratchets down an inch or so. “This is why I told you when you hired me that I don’t do coffee runs.”</p><p>“Or dry cleaning,” he adds after a hefty gulp of cold, sweet caffeine.</p><p>“Or grocery shopping.”</p><p>David shakes his head, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth gives him away. “You are legitimately the world’s worst PA. Anyone else would have fired you at least thirty times by now.”</p><p>“I take that as a compliment.” She lifts her cup to tap the rim against his in a toast. “Then again, anyone else would have quit the first time you texted them to come rescue you from a moth at three in the morning.”</p><p>David scoffs. “That was one time!”</p><p>“Yeah, the other two times were silverfish.” She raises her brows in challenge, and, well, he supposes she isn’t technically wrong. Still, he grumbles about it anyway, and the sound of her throaty laughter follows her into the back room, where she deposits her bag before they get down to business.</p><p>For all that they like to joke about her complete unwillingness to perform the everyday tasks common of most personal assistants, David will admit—only under extremest duress of course—that she is worth her weight in gold in just about every other arena. Sure, there’s a lot more snark involved in the process than there would be with anyone else, but David wouldn’t want it any other way. That’s why he’d hired her. She was one of the few people in the world who seemed to be able to not only put up with his bullshit but also call him on it when he needed to be. That’s how they had become friends, long before her family had disowned her and cut her out of their hotel empire. He’d hired her then as an excuse to throw ridiculous amounts of money her way so that she could afford to stay here in New York with him. At the end of the day, he wouldn’t care if she didn’t do a single ounce of work in exchange for it. But aside from the errands, she’s actually a damn good assistant.</p><p>Together they walk the space, Stevie taking notes as David talks about his vision for what will be his second Rose Apothecary location. The idea of the expansion is still a bit daunting, but he knows it’s a smart move. It’s been four years of strong sales at the Brooklyn store, and the demand for local delivery continues to grow nearly faster than he can keep up with it. Adding this location will increase his market area and redistribute the deliveries to better balance the demand between the two stores.</p><p>However, he doesn’t want to simply replicate what he’d done the first time either. He’d put in hours and hours of research before he’d opened the doors there, finding out what people wanted but weren’t getting elsewhere, fitting his merchandise to the needs of his neighbors, building not just a general store but a store specific to its community, and that’s what he needs to do here as well. The overall aesthetic will be similar—it should still recognizably be Rose Apothecary, the same hand-designed logo adorning the sign above the door, the product labels, the reusable cloth totes—but it needs to be precisely tweaked and tailored for the needs of this location. It’s a task that’s much easier this time than it was the first because both David’s loft and his gallery are only a few blocks away, which means he already knows exactly what needs to be different and what needs to be just the same.</p><p>He and Stevie run through it all—furniture, wall colors, product selection and placement—and they both run out of coffee long before he runs out of steam. He can see it as clearly as if it were already launch day. Custom shelving in rich, deep stains, the weight of them offset by crisp greys and whites on the walls. Vibrant local art and leafy house plants popping bright and fresh in the sunlight of the display windows. Soft, warm lighting and antiqued gold fixtures.</p><p>“And definitely call Ronnie to get an estimate for how much it’ll cost to do the same floors here as in Fort Greene,” David says. “Remind her she gave me the discount last time for getting her Jazmín’s number; see if she’s still feeling generous. I can probably go a little higher if needed, but the extra square footage here is going to eat into that quickly.”</p><p>He looks around, trying to think of anything he’s missed, and when he finally gives a satisfied nod, Stevie literally crosses a t and dots an i and slaps her notebook closed.</p><p>“Do you think Jake would be able to meet us tomorrow to start taking measurements?” he asks when they step out into the unrelenting afternoon heat. Jake had built all the shelving for the first location, back before he became Stevie’s on-again, off-again fling. He’s tried, unsuccessfully, to become David’s on-again, off-again fling, too, and David has to at least give him credit for trying. Repeatedly. It would be annoying if it were anyone else, but the affable, unflappable way Jake handles the rejection every time is oddly charming. </p><p>“No,” Stevie says with a firmness that catches David off-guard. “He might be able to meet <em>me</em> here tomorrow, but <em>you</em> are going to your parents.”</p><p>He freezes with the key halfway in the lock, pinning her with a stare. “Why in the fuck would I do that?”</p><p><a id="return1" name="return1"></a>“Because it’s the All-Star Break.”<sup>[<a href="#note1">1</a>]</sup></p><p>His head drops back between his shoulders so that he can pout up at whatever god cursed him with a team owner as a father. “I don’t wanna.”</p><p><a id="return2" name="return2"></a>Johnny Rose seems to think baseball is the most important thing in the world, and though David couldn’t possibly disagree more, he makes this one annual, baseball-related concession to his family. Every year Johnny and Moira host a party at their home during the All-Star Break for the players and staff of both the Blue Jays and their minor league affiliates, and David has a standing agreement to put in an appearance. Johnny seems to think David’s going to come around to enjoying it one of these years—he does technically own their Triple-A team after all<sup>[<a href="#note2">2</a>]</sup>—but he’s never had any interest in the family business, and it would take much more than a party to change his mind about that.</p><p>“My heart’s breaking for you. Really.” Stevie rolls her eyes and starts up the block, while David finishes locking the door and catches up. “You’re gonna get dressed up and eat wild beluga caviar and fuck some cute Silver Slugger contender or his girlfriend or maybe both. It’s quite the modern tragedy.”</p><p>“First of all, my parents are not breaking out the good caviar at a party for <em>their employees,</em> and secondly, I told you, I am <em>done</em> with baseball players.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>They turn at the corner, heading automatically in the direction of David’s loft.</p><p>“I am,” he insists.</p><p>Stevie gives him the kind of nod that he knows means she’ll believe it when she sees it, but he’s adamant about this. After everything with Sebastien last year, there will be no more dating, sleeping with, or even kissing baseball players. Or their girlfriends, boyfriends, wives, husbands, friends, or recent acquaintances. He is done with them all.</p><p>“Well, we should celebrate your newfound willpower then.” She produces a beautifully rolled joint from her shirt pocket; this is exactly why they’re friends. He slips an arm through hers, and together they set a brisk pace toward his apartment.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It only takes an hour into the party for David to regret his newfound willpower. Not because there are any people here in whom he’s particularly interested, but because it turns out that his past exploits were the only thing keeping these parties from being mind-numbingly dull. Normally by now he’s well drunk on champagne, his tongue shoved in some mouth or another. It’s not that he has a thing for baseball players particularly—really he’s never liked anything to do with baseball at all—but when you grow up the son of a team owner, baseball players are never in short supply.</p><p>There have been a few through the years who were interesting, though in the light of the morning that interest only seemed to go one way. There have been a few who only wanted to try it on for the night. Once or twice there has been someone who lasts a few weeks but never longer than it takes to realize that David’s interest in baseball stops at the way the sport shapes their biceps, their shoulders, their backs.</p><p>And then there was Sebastien, who had stuck around longer than the rest, but at the end of it all, he’d left David feeling so humiliated and used that he’d sworn to himself there would be no more baseball players in his bed or in his life.</p><p>Still, maybe a quick blowjob in the coat room wouldn’t be the end of the world. Anything to distract him from the mundanity of all this.</p><p>Not even his own family can serve as a worthy distraction at this point. Alexis snuck off with the team’s physician hours ago. His father just disappeared into the lounge with a bottle of Macallan and the more highly-regarded members of the team staff. David can hear his mother still warbling through songs to a smattering of applause at the far end of the hall, but the slowed, slurred quality of it says her evening round of benzos have finally started to kick in and she’ll be off to bed any time now, or at least the nearest horizontal surface. It wouldn’t be the first time David’s found her passed out on the piano bench.</p><p>He wishes, yet again, that he’d brought Stevie with him and pulls out his phone to text her.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody"><span class="header1"></span>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> How’d the measuring go?</span>
</p>
</div><p>Her response is almost immediate.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Aren’t you at a party?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Stop worrying about work.</span>
</p>
</div><p>He ducks into the kitchen to steal a few canapés on his way toward the west wing of the house, where he’s going to take a long, hot shower and collapse into his bed.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> I can multitask</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> I’ll have you know I’m a pro at being both anxious and bored, all at the same time</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Two whole emotions? At once?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> I’m very impressed.</span>
</p>
</div><p>His bark of laughter catches one of the serving staff off-guard, and she nearly drops a tray of salmon roe and crème fraîche blinis. The caterer seems to think that’s somehow his fault and shoos him out of the kitchen.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> What can I say, I’m a man of many talents</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Is one of those talents an uncanny knack for interrupting date night?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Shit. Sorry!</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Say hi to Jake for me</span>
</p>
</div><p>The music room is blissfully unoccupied, so he stops in to make himself a nightcap at the bar in the corner, nearly choking on a sip of his sazerac when her next reply rolls in.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Should I do that now while he’s inside me or can I wait until he pulls out?</span>
</p>
</div><p>He’s pretty sure she isn’t serious but honestly wouldn’t put it past her.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> OMG stop texting me and get back to your date</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> You texted me.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> And unlike you I can actually multitask.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeee</span>
</p>
</div><p>Just as his foot lands on the first step leading up toward his bedroom, his phone buzzes once more.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Check your inside pocket. You can pay me back with lunch when you get home.</span>
</p>
</div><p>He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out one of Stevie’s perfectly rolled joints and a lighter. Bless her. She really is the best PA he could ask for.</p><p>Depositing the dregs of his drink onto the tray of a passing server, he heads for the veranda, stepping out into the night air and breathing it in deep. It’s warm but much less humid than it’s been in New York the last few days, and it makes him think of bonfires on lakeshores and cottages decorated in pastels and all those other classic clichés that appear in movies about fun summer evenings spent in the company of friends. </p><p>Not that David’s friends would ever be caught dead in cottage country. </p><p>Or doing anything as passé as having fun.</p><p>With a sigh, he flicks the lighter, and as the flame sparks to life, something catches his eye: a moving figure off in the faraway darkness, just visible in the silvered light of the moon. He lets the flame die and tries to focus on that distant something. The groundspeople should all be gone for the night—his parents would never let them be seen on the property during a party. Occasionally a couple of drunk or high or otherwise adventurous partygoers will make their way out into the grounds to find some privacy, but whoever this is seems to be alone as best David can tell.</p><p>Alone on David’s baseball diamond.</p><p>He’s down the stairs and out onto the lawn before he even realizes what he’s doing. He doesn’t care about baseball, and he definitely doesn’t care about that patch of grass his father had gifted him as a child. Maybe it’s because of his new resolution, or maybe it’s just because he’s never liked people touching his things, but there’s something he can’t stand about this stranger sneaking out here in the middle of the night, bold enough to use David’s diamond without permission.</p><p>His patent leather boots sink deep into the dewy grass, the sweet, green scent of it wafting up around him as he marches past the pool and the tennis courts, out to the farthest part of the property. As he gets closer, that moonlit figure resolves itself into the definitive shape of a man. A man in dress slacks, his suit jacket already discarded somewhere, the sleeves of his light-colored shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing the long, pale stretch of his forearms as he reaches down to retrieve a ball from the bucket beside him, tosses it straight up in the air, and takes a lazy swing at it as it falls back to earth. The bat connects with a dull thwack that reverberates through the night air, briefly silencing the crickets and the frogs singing all around them. There’s another lob and another hit, and another, and another, something carefree in each rise and fall and swing, something oddly measured and relaxing, like the largo tempo of a metronome.</p><p>The part of David that marched out here intent on telling off this man seems to lose its nerve, while the part of him that likes to fuck baseball players watches the broad line of his shoulders, the twist of his back, the plush curve of his ass and thinks that maybe resolutions are for stronger people than him.</p><p>When the next ball falls, the swing fails to connect, and the ball bounces and rolls back toward where David stands with his toes at the edge of the field. The man turns to follow it and freezes as he locks eyes with David. Even in the moonlight, David can tell he’s blushing.</p><p>“Uh, hi,” he says eventually, a sheepish smile blossoming on his face. “I didn’t realize anyone else was out here.” </p><p>David looks him up and down—he’s even cuter from the front—before cocking an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t realize anyone had permission to play on my field,” he counters, trying to reach for a bit of that indignant fire that had driven him out here and coming up short.</p><p>The smile on the man’s face grows. It has the unfortunate consequence of making him even more attractive. “David Rose,” he says, as if David doesn’t know his own damn name. “You own the Bears.”</p><p>“Mm, only technically.”</p><p>That smile tilts a little toward confusion, like he can’t quite decide what to make of that. “Well then <em>technically</em> I think that makes you my boss. Patrick Brewer,” he says, stepping closer and extending a sturdy hand. “Catcher.”</p><p>Well then. </p><p>“That seems a bit forward, but good to know.” He shakes Patrick’s offered hand, taking advantage of the proximity to unabashedly check him out. It never hurts to look, right? His suit is clearly off-the-rack, but he fills it out well enough that maybe David wouldn’t say no to getting a peek at what’s beneath it after all.</p><p>“Oh.” Patrick chuckles a little, ducking his head. That ever-changing grin morphs again, shaping into something shyer this time. “No, I’m— That’s my position. On the team, I mean. I’m a catcher for the Bears.”</p><p>“I don’t really know what that means.” He doesn’t know a lot about baseball, but he’s pretty sure <em>all</em> the players are supposed to catch the ball if it comes their way, right?</p><p>For the first time, Patrick’s smile falters entirely, and David misses it as soon as it’s gone, which is ridiculous; they’ve just met. “You… don’t know what ‘catcher’ means?”</p><p>Realizing he’s still holding Patrick’s hand, David finally lets go, taking a deep, clarifying breath now that he can’t feel the roughness of Patrick’s callused fingers against his palm. Nope. No matter how tempting Patrick might be, David’s not going to fuck a baseball player tonight. He’s not. He’s not? <em>He’s not.</em></p><p>Instead of answering a question he’s clearly already answered, he asks one of his own. “Why aren’t you enjoying the party?”</p><p>“Just not really my style. You?”</p><p>David wants to say that it isn’t his style either, though it kind of is. Or at least it has been often enough in the past. Not the guest list, perhaps, but the decadence and the free-flowing liquor and the lowered inhibitions. Not that he wants to say that to Patrick either. He knows the reputation that typically precedes him, but Patrick’s question had been offered neutrally enough that perhaps he doesn’t actually know that David has a habit of sleeping with anything on two muscular legs. If so, David certainly isn’t about to clue him in.</p><p>“No, not tonight,” he replies, leaving it at that.</p><p>“Well,” Patrick says, tucking his hands deep into his trouser pockets, “since you’re out here and not in there, you want to throw the ball around for a bit?”</p><p>David shakes his head vigorously. “Oh no. I don’t do baseball.”</p><p>That tilted smile makes its reappearance on Patrick’s face, and David’s stomach flutters. “You don’t… <em>do</em>… baseball.”</p><p>“That’s correct.”</p><p>“David, you own a baseball team.” He looks like he’s trying not to laugh, and even though David thinks it might be at his expense, he finds he still wants to see it happen.</p><p>“Like I said, only technically. My dad bought it for me for my bar mitzvah, but I’ve never even been to the, um, the place... where you play it.”</p><p>“Brebner’s Park,” Patrick offers, and David grimaces at that inelegant mix of consonants.</p><p>“He also gave me this when I was ten, but I’ve never set foot on it.” He isn’t really sure why he’s telling Patrick this, other than he’s here listening, looking at David like he’s actually interested in what he’s saying and not just what he has to offer.</p><p>“You’ve never set foot on this diamond? Not once?”</p><p>David looks down at his feet, his toes just outside the demarcation line where the pillowy grass of the lawn changes to the clipped short texture of the field his father still insists on maintaining even though no one uses it. “No.”</p><p>“In that case you <em>definitely</em> have to throw the ball around with me now.” Patrick takes several steps back, as if that will entice him onto the field. It is tempting somehow, but David works hard not to show it.</p><p>“I don’t think so.”</p><p>“It won’t kill you.”</p><p>“You don’t know. It might.”</p><p>Patrick shrugs. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”</p><p>“Oh sure, you’re fine with putting <em>my</em> life on the line.” David throws his hands up in exasperation, but Patrick only steps farther back, gesturing for David to join him.</p><p>“Come on, you think I’m just gonna let my boss die? There are no witnesses out here. Everyone would think I did it.”</p><p>The glare David aims his way is icy. “Don’t call me that.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Your boss. I’m not your boss.”</p><p>“Mm, I think you are.” His grin is wide and teasing. “But only technically.”</p><p>David rolls his eyes hard enough to be sure Patrick can still see it in the moonlight. “You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”</p><p>Somehow Patrick’s grin grows even wider, taking over his whole face. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll give you a choice. Either play catch with me now, or come to the game on Wednesday.”</p><p>“Or here’s another idea: I walk away right now and do neither of those things.”</p><p>“You could.” Patrick shrugs. “But you won’t.”</p><p>“You don’t know that.” You don’t know <em>me,</em> David thinks.</p><p>“Then let’s call it a hunch.”</p><p>David looks down at the ball that had rolled to a stop near his feet, and when he bends down and picks it up, all he can think is that it’s smaller in his hand than he’d expected. For something that’s such a big part of the lives of everyone around him, it’s strangely insignificant. He looks up again to find Patrick still smiling at him like he thinks David’s some kind of delight. That smile is addictive. It’s been only minutes since they met, and David is already afraid that he would do terribly stupid things to have a chance to see it again.</p><p>Still, David Rose doesn’t do baseball. Not even for Patrick Brewer.</p><p>He halfway expects the first step he takes out onto the field to feel like breaking a curse, like crossing some magical barrier to find that suddenly the world is a little more colorful on the other side. But his Saint Laurent boots look just as out of place in the grass on this side of that self-imposed barrier as they had on the other. The only difference is in the way Patrick’s face lights up even brighter than before, and David has to take a deep breath to maintain his resolve.</p><p>He crosses carefully to where Patrick stands waiting and places the ball in the palm of his hand. “Good night, Patrick.” Then he turns for the house, marching away before he’s tempted to do anything reckless like lean across the distance to press their mouths together or let Patrick actually talk him into throwing around that fucking ball.</p><p>Behind him there’s a soft chuckle and Patrick’s voice drifting across the distance. “See you Wednesday, David.”</p><p>He won’t, but that’s probably best for both of them.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note1" name="note1"></a><sup>1</sup> The Major League Baseball (MLB) All-Star Break is a four-day period in early July where no regular-season games are played. Instead there is an exhibition All-Star Game on the second day of the break (Tuesday), surrounded by other events throughout the four days. Triple-A baseball (part of the minor leagues) has a similar break that overlaps the MLB one, with their All-Star Game taking place on Wednesday. [<a href="#return1">▲</a>]</p><p><a id="note2" name="note2"></a><sup>2</sup> All MLB teams have various Minor League Baseball (MiLB) team affiliates. This is colloquially known as the farm system, and it allows each major league team space to rehab injured players and develop the skills of younger players to prepare them to play in the majors. There are multiple levels of MiLB, and players typically begin their careers at or near the bottom and work their way up to the highest level, Triple-A, where they hope to eventually be called up to play in the majors. Johnny owns the Toronto Blue Jays here, Canada’s only MLB team, and the Schitt’s Creek Bears are their Triple-A affiliate. (In reality, Rogers Communications owns the Jays, and the Buffalo Bisons are their real-life Triple-A affiliate. The Bisons still technically exist in this universe, but I guess they’re the affiliate for someone else now.) [<a href="#return2">▲</a>]</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><a href="https://www.npr.org/2015/02/07/384503027/family-flees-to-schitts-creek-thats-schitt-with-an-h%E2%80%9D%20target=">According to Eugene Levy</a>, the Goodwood Bears, a local team in Goodwood, ON where many of the exteriors for the show are filmed, changed their name to the Schitt’s Creek Bears temporarily as an homage to the show, so I’ve called David’s team the Bears to match.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. two on, no outs</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>David wakes up in the morning, sits on the balcony of his bedroom, and drinks a cup of sweet, milky tea, idly crumbling apart the scone on his plate as he watches the pool boy skimming leaves. He puts his voicemail on speakerphone and listens to Ronnie run through a variety of flooring options and price points, trying to decide where they can rearrange the budget to make the multicolored strip planks work. He emails a few of his local suppliers, declines the invitation to the opening of Roshan’s newest installation, and replies with a quick thanks to Jake’s estimated timeline for the pieces they need him to build.</p><p>He does not think about Patrick Brewer.</p><p>Why should he? They’re never going to see each other again, and David has a resolution to keep.</p><p>Instead he spends the afternoon keeping up his tan and swiping leftover hors d'oeuvres from the fridge and watching <i>You’ve Got Mail</i> in the screening room. </p><p>And as Kathleen stands in the middle of Riverside Park and hears Joe call out for Brinkley, he swipes at the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes and sends a text to Stevie, hoping to catch her pre-Jake this time.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header1"></span>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Going to stay an extra night or two here</span>
</p>
</div><p>He doesn’t really know why he does it. It’s not like there’s anything for him to do here besides hang around the house some more, maybe help his mom blow out a wig or two, try to see if he can catch Alexis between whatever parties she’s inevitably bolting off to. But he does it anyway.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Everything okay?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> The last time you stayed more than one night there was when your mom lost that part to Annette Benning and didn’t that end with a police standoff??</span>
</p>
</div><p>She’s not wrong to be concerned. David has tried to spend as little time in this house as possible over the last few years. But he just isn’t quite ready to go back to New York yet, he supposes, and so he lies so that Stevie won’t try to send him for a psych eval.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> No hostage situations this time</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Just another Alexis breakup</span>
</p>
</div><p>It’s as good an excuse as any. His sister’s relationships are usually as short-lived as his own, though she’s more often the one doing the breaking up. She’s been the messy one on the receiving end a few times though, so it should at least be a good enough lie to fool Stevie for now.</p><p>She doesn’t ask any more questions, so he supposes it works.</p><p>The evening passes much as the day had, with David floating around the house aimlessly. He happens past the dining room just in time to get trapped into having dinner with his mother, looking as always as if she’s just come from a red carpet and not merely from idling around the east wing. They discuss the success of another year’s All-Star party, and something at the base of David’s spine tingles at the mention of last night. But he waves it off as she draws him into a tangent about the theme for this year’s edition of her annual childhood alopecia benefit, the toddler wig-a-thon.</p><p>It’s only long after he escapes, lying in bed in the dark, that David lets himself think about that tingle. About what it is that’s really keeping him here. </p><p>He thinks about the precise span of slim hips and the way his hands might feel wrapped around them, thumbs set against the edge of bone rising beneath soft skin. He thinks about strong forearms and rough fingers and the solid curves of well-defined muscles hidden beneath a poly-blend shirt. He thinks about a knowing grin, and a shy one, and a teasing one, and the way each of them would taste, bright and hot against his mouth.</p><p>He thinks, too, about all the baseball players who have come before, trying to remind himself that sleeping with Patrick is a terrible idea. At worst, it could lead to another Sebastien, and that’s precisely why he’d resolved to stop getting involved with players. But he’s not looking for involvement, not really. Just one or two nights of sweaty, glorious sex. Just a bit of fun.</p><p><em>And</em>, he thinks, as he lingers on the knife-edge of sleep, <em>what would be so wrong with having a little fun with Patrick Brewer?</em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>He finds his father in his office at lunchtime, the tv on the wall turned up loud where some talking head is discussing the Blue Jays’ postseason potential, as Johnny nods along from his plush leather chair, a bite of brisket dangling forgotten at the end of his fork.</p><p>“David!” His face lights up with delight, and he sets down his utensils on the desk, reaching for the remote instead to lower the television’s volume. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”</p><p>“Yep. Still here. I, uh—”</p><p>He falters there because he really doesn’t want to have this conversation. But he also can’t do what he’s decided to do without talking to his father first, though that doesn’t make it any easier to begin.</p><p>Johnny, however, reads his struggle and tries to initiate the conversation for him. “Is it the store? Because I can call up Eli and have him move some cash around if you need—”</p><p>“No,” David interrupts. “I don’t need— The store is <em>fine,</em>” he says emphatically, because of <em>course</em> he would naturally think that the Apothecary must be failing. Nevermind that David’s been successfully running it for four years now and his gallery for seven, or that he’s told his family he’s expanding into a second location.</p><p>The program on the tv plays a collection of clips from some other All-Star Game, a different one than the one Patrick is going to be in tonight apparently. David recognizes one or two of the players from his family’s parties throughout the years. It’s a reminder that he really shouldn’t be doing this, but he thinks about Patrick’s certainty when he’d said <em>see you Wednesday</em> and, with a deep breath, lets the words rush out of him.</p><p>“I thought I might come to the game tonight.”</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Johnny do a full-on double-take, whipping back around to stare at David so hard that he can feel it burning against his cheek. </p><p>“You— You want to go to a baseball game?”</p><p>David doesn’t turn away from the television, that fragile, disbelieving hope in his father’s voice overwhelming enough without having to see it written all over his face, too. “Well, <em>want</em> is a strong word,” he says with a shrug. “But yes, I thought I might go. For a bit.”</p><p>The one thing David likes most about his dad is his lack of a desire to pry. His mother or sister would have immediately asked <em>why?</em> Instead, Johnny just claps his hands together elatedly. “That’s wonderful! A little father-son bonding time!” He looks like every wish he’s ever had has just been granted, and David just manages not to roll his eyes at his dad’s excitement. This is precisely why he hadn’t wanted to talk to him. “It’s still not too late for you to take an interest in the business, you know. We can talk stats, and I can—”</p><p>“Okay, we won’t be doing any of that.” It’s best to cut him off before he can get too many ideas, and now that David’s done what he needed to do, it’s time to make a hasty exit. “It’s just one game. That’s all,” he says as he backs toward the door.</p><p>“You know that’s exactly how it starts, son—one game and you fall in love!” Johnny calls after him as he slips back into the hallway, and David shakes his head as he retreats to the safety of his own room.</p><p>That may have been how it happened for his dad, but there’s no way David is ever going to fall in love with baseball.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>David is in love with baseball.</p><p>Okay, no, not baseball exactly, or even like really at all, so much as all the accoutrements of attending a game in the private suite they’re using for the game. It’s very unlike the experience he’d expected from the brief clips he’s seen on tv—tiny, uncomfortable seats in the harsh summer sun, crowds of people sweating and yelling and spilling beers everywhere, balls flying very fast through the air with the potential to hit you right in the face. </p><p>This is nothing like any of that. Sure, the people sitting <em>out there</em> seem to be having that experience, and in here it’s still not exactly the Ritz, but there’s air conditioning and worn leather sofas and a bartender who can make an excellent dirty martini. There’s a never-ending supply of chili dogs and deep-fried mac and cheese bites, soft pretzels with mustard, nachos and chicken wings and crispy, golden brown curly fries. </p><p>The drawback to all of this is that they had to come to fucking Buffalo of all places for the game—something both Patrick and Johnny had neglected to mention—but, thankfully, for all that David is seeing of the city, they might as well be on the moon.</p><p>There’s also far less baseball talk than David would have imagined. Aside from his dad who had started the evening trying to teach him about the game but given it up as a bad job around David’s third food order, the only other person really talking business is Roland, a manager or something who works for Johnny and who has been having loud phone conversations on and off throughout the whole game.</p><p>For the most part though, David finds it easy to ignore him and the game equally, working his way now through a bowl of soft serve—chocolate and vanilla swirl—while fucking around on his phone. But suddenly the announcer says “Patrick Brewer” over <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auLBLk4ibAk">a synth-and-drums song intro</a>, the lyrics proclaiming something about a modern-day warrior with a mean, mean stride, and David’s stomach gives a funny little lurch that leaves him feeling vaguely queasy. Or maybe that’s the ice cream.</p><p>He peers out the large windows that overlook the field, trying his best to look bored and disinterested in the whole thing while he searches for Patrick in that sea of green, finally spotting him with a bat in his hand, looking far more comfortable in his uniform than he had two nights ago in his suit. The uniform is... well, hideous doesn’t even begin to cover that brown and yellow color combination, but still, it’s recognizably him, those same forearms and shoulders, that same unbelievable ass, though in the light of day David can add his beautifully thick thighs to the list of things that are going to keep him up at night. To say he wears his ugly uniform well is to put it so mildly as to be laughable, and if David wasn’t entirely sure if he was interested in sleeping with him before, he certainly is now.</p><p><a id="return3" name="return3"></a>He’s less sure, however, about what Patrick’s role is in this part of the game. Johnny had mentioned a bit ago that it’s the bottom of the second inning, whatever that means. The inning part he’s kind of gotten down; it’s some sort of period of time, and there seem to be nine of them in the game. But he has no idea what bottom means. Not when talking about baseball at least.<sup>[<a href="#note3">3</a>]</sup></p><p>Which brings his thoughts back around to Patrick, who is apparently a catcher but <em>not like that.</em></p><p>Out in the dirt, Patrick steps up to the little white home plate thing on the ground, tapping his bat against it before settling into a wide stance with the bat at the ready, and David holds his breath. The pitcher throws the ball, and it zooms right past Patrick, who doesn’t swing at all. The announcer refers to it as a ball, which… seems obvious? Isn’t a ball the only thing they throw? It’s not a magic show; the pitcher isn’t going to suddenly pull a rabbit out of his hat or glove or whatever and hurl that at Patrick instead. David’s pretty sure of that much at least.</p><p>But maybe he should ask about it. However, that would require admitting that he’s interested, which his dad will take to mean he’s interested in <em>baseball,</em> when really David’s only interested in <em>Patrick playing baseball,</em> and that isn’t a discussion he wants to have with his father. Instead, he watches silently as the next throw thuds into the dirt beside the plate, which the announcer also says is a ball.</p><p>The bat shifts in Patrick’s hands as he waits for the next throw, and David wonders if he’s nervous. David is nervous on his behalf at least, and he pulls his hands back into the sleeves of his Rick Owens hoodie to cover the way his fingers twitch in anticipation.</p><p>When the throw comes, Patrick finally moves, and there’s a solid crack, the ball sailing high in the air, a swooping, soaring feeling rising in David’s belly along with it. It comes down amid a crowd of spectators who jostle to recover the ball from its landing place, and Patrick turns back to the plate.</p><p>That one leaves David particularly confused. He’s seen other people hit the ball into the crowd, and they get to trot around the field and the score on the board goes up by at least one. But Patrick’s just standing there the same as when he hadn’t swung at all.</p><p>“Foul ball,” his father says, slipping into the empty seat next to him on the sofa. </p><p><em>With all the hands and grass and dirt that seem to have touched it, foul doesn’t even begin to describe it,</em> David thinks.</p><p>“If it goes into the stands before the foul poles”—Johnny points to two, large, yellow posts on either side of the field—”it’s a foul ball, and it counts as a strike, except when…”</p><p>David doesn’t hear the rest of the explanation. All he can hear is “strike.” Strikes are bad. He knows that much, and his chest aches a little at the thought. Because no matter how much he knows he shouldn’t care, he doesn’t want Patrick to have a strike. </p><p>The ball whizzes through the air again, and this time when Patrick swings, he misses it entirely. “Strike two,” the announcer explains, and David’s nerves wriggle him right to the edge of his seat. Breathless and fidgety, he repeats “no more strikes” silently to himself like a desperate broken record.</p><p>Patrick though looks as calm as ever. He bends his knees a little deeper, bat over his shoulder as the pitcher pulls back for another throw. He swings, those delectable hips whipping into motion, his shoulders, arms, and bat following right behind, and a resounding crack echoes through the air as he makes contact with the ball. It launches up higher and faster than the last hit, soaring up over the left side of the field and out into the upper level of seats, the fans there clambering over each other until one finally raises the ball in the air, victorious. David doesn’t need the confirmation his dad gives him to know that this one isn’t foul, and he claps his hands excitedly as Patrick jogs off toward the first base. The score on the board rises by two as some other player and then Patrick work their way back around to home plate, their teammates welcoming them each back with a hearty round of high fives.</p><p>The big tv screen cuts to a close-up of his face, smile wide, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from excitement or exertion or some heady mix of both. He looks boyish and carefree in a way he hadn’t at the party, and so impossibly gorgeous that David can only think one thing:</p><p>
  <em>I want him.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><a id="return4" name="return4"></a>The rest of the game is far less exciting. Patrick’s team manages to score a few more times, including once when he hits something called an R-I-B single. Or was it B-R-I? R-B-I maybe? Something like that anyway.<sup>[<a href="#note4">4</a>]</sup> Patrick doesn’t ever make it back around to home plate before the inning is over, but he doesn’t seem terribly upset about it as he walks back to the little bunker where all his teammates are sitting.</p><p>David hears Patrick’s name a few times when he isn’t batting too, and after the third or fourth instance, he finally realizes that it’s because Patrick is the person crouching behind the batter at home plate, covered in padding, with a bulky mask pulled down over his face as he waits with his glove at the ready.</p><p>The catcher.</p><p>Understanding finally clicks into place, and David feels even dumber that he hadn’t put it together before. Patrick catches the balls thrown by the pitcher. It’s surprisingly logical, and perhaps that’s why he hadn’t made the connection. He hadn’t expected baseball to be so straightforward. There’d been a brief fling with a football player in college who had tried to teach him about things like safeties and quarterbacks, but the only part of that that had really stuck was something about tight ends, though he’s pretty sure what he remembers about that lesson has very little to do with the actual sport. </p><p><a id="return5" name="return5"></a>He’d expected baseball to be more like that, with made-up names that might as well be quidditch terms for all the sense they make. Instead, a quick scroll through the baseball wikipedia page tells him that aside from something called a shortstop, the positions all have that same kind of obvious name—first base, left field.<sup>[<a href="#note5">5</a>]</sup> There’s something elegant in the simplicity of it, and that’s something David can certainly appreciate.</p><p>Eventually he stops hearing Patrick’s name at all, and once he confirms that it’s now someone else’s thighs on display behind the batter, he loses any remaining interest in the game. He even considers getting their driver to take him home early, but his dad mentions something about a late-night, post-game dinner tradition, so much hope etched into the lines of his face that David can’t bear to tell him no.</p><p>Unfortunately, dinner means they’re joined by Roland and the other team staff in a private dining room at a local steakhouse, all of them excited to talk baseball and the business of baseball, much the way David had expected them to at the game, and he takes a seat at the far end of the table to avoid being included in as many conversations as he can.</p><p>“Ah, the guests of honor!” Johnny’s voice cuts through all the noise as cleanly as if he’d hit pause, everyone turning toward the tall, well-sculpted, Latino man just stepping through the door and Patrick Brewer right on his heels. </p><p>The smile on his face is stiff, but when his gaze circles the table far enough to land on David, it seems to melt into something a touch warmer, and David tries to squash down the flash of heat that courses through his veins before it can bloom across his face.</p><p>Johnny waves them into the seats on either side of him, barking out “Great game tonight, boys. Great game!” and the talking commences again all at once, everyone rushing to congratulate the two players on their win. Having banished himself to the far end of the table, David knows he can’t really pout about not sitting next to Patrick, but if someone had <em>told him</em> that Patrick was coming, he would have obviously gone about this all differently. As it is, he can’t really hear much of what Patrick’s saying in the animated conversation he’s having with Johnny as they all dig into their steaks, but the little half-smile Patrick gives him every time he catches his eye goes a way toward soothing the self-inflicted sting.</p><p>Well after dessert has been cleared, David’s glued to his phone, two-thirds of the way through a long-form article on a man who repairs antique typewriters, when someone slides into the open chair next to him, and he looks up to find himself staring into a pair of warm, brown eyes.</p><p>“Hi,” he says, a little breathless.</p><p>“So you came to the game.” The twist of Patrick’s lips grows, smug and smart.</p><p>“How do you know I didn’t just come for dinner?”</p><p>Patrick gives him a skeptical look. “Did you just come for dinner?”</p><p>There’s only a sip or two left in David’s glass, and he downs the rest of it, hoping to wash the truth right back down his throat with it. “No,” he admits anyway, and it’s worth it for the way Patrick’s lovely mouth blossoms into a toothy grin. “You’re very good at the catching and the batting and all that stuff.”</p><p>“That stuff, huh?”</p><p>“You know, the other… baseball things. You’re good at all of the baseball things.”</p><p>The way Patrick laughs is breathtaking, his cheeks going all full and round, his eyes crinkling deeply at the corners, and David can’t help but imagine how those cheeks and those crinkles and those smiling, happy lips would feel beneath his own mouth. He has to look away before he’s tempted to lean in and try it, focusing instead on the empty glass he’s rolling between his fingers, letting the cool, smooth surface of it calm his aching nerves.</p><p>“Thank you, David,” Patrick replies, that laugh still strung through every syllable. “No one’s ever told me I was good at all of the baseball things before.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“I mean, I’ve never met anyone else who called it ‘the baseball things,’ so yeah I’d have to say this is a first.”</p><p>David flails a hand dismissively toward the other end of the room. “Okay, if that’s how you’re gonna be, you can just go back to sitting next to my dad, thanks.”</p><p>Patrick’s face does something David’s pretty sure he’s only ever seen on puppies before, like he’s somehow pouting with just his eyes, big and round and shining. It shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. “Are you saying you’re not enjoying my charming company?”</p><p>“Yes,” he replies, but the twitch at the corner of Patrick’s mouth tells David he knows the truth. </p><p>“Well then, I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.”</p><p>He starts to push up out of his chair, and David gives in, his fingers twitching with the desire to tug him back into his seat. “Ugh, fine. You can stay. For now.” The look Patrick gives him is far too keen, but he sits back down anyway; David presses his lips together and tries not to look too pleased about it.</p><p>“I guess I can't disobey the boss."</p><p>“I'm still not your boss.”</p><p>“Technically you still are though. So you gonna start coming to games now? Take an interest in the team? Should I be worried you're gonna trade me away?” </p><p>The wicked twist of Patrick’s lips is tauntingly tempting, and David thinks, <em>come home with me. Come home with me, and let's see what else that mouth can do.</em> “I might,” he says instead, “if you keep calling me ‘boss.’”</p><p>“Well, we wouldn't want that. Not when you just learned about ‘the baseball things.’”</p><p>It should sting, being teased this way, but there's something so good-natured in the way Patrick does it, like all he wants out of it is to see David smile. No one before has ever thrown his words back at him in that way before, in a way that makes him want to say even more ridiculous things just to see what Patrick might volley back next. It feels a bit like that summer Alexis had gotten really into tennis, or at least her tennis instructor, and had managed to drag him out onto their private court exactly once to hit the ball back and forth. Except it's nothing like that at all because that dreadful experience had only left him sweaty and gross and sore, and this—Patrick—leaves him lit up, electric and humming.</p><p>Though if David gets his way, sweaty and gross and sore can definitely come later.</p><p>“So, David,” Patrick says, distracting him from the start of that fantasy, “what do you do when you're not neglecting your employees?”</p><p>“You're incorrigible.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p><em>Ridiculous,</em> David thinks, shaking his head and burying the smile that wants to break free. Patrick is ridiculous, and it’s ridiculous how badly David only wants more of him. “I run an art gallery and am working on opening a second branch of my store.”</p><p>“In Toronto?”</p><p>“Uh, no, in Manhattan. I was only home for the party.” He doesn’t want to give Patrick the time to put together that that isn’t strictly true, that he had stayed longer to go to the game tonight, so he hurries to turn the conversation around. "So what do you do when you're not... catching balls?" He lets it be the innuendo that it is and relishes the way Patrick blushes and ducks his head even as he chuckles.</p><p>“There's a lot more to being a catcher, you know, than just catching balls.”</p><p>“So you're telling me you're versatile.”</p><p>Though Patrick goes pinker still, he doesn't miss a beat. “Oh, I'm very flexible.”</p><p>A spark of... something... flares up in his eyes, and David could swear that they dip down to his mouth for the tiniest fraction of a second, there and back in the span of a blink. The mere possibility zips down his spine like lightning, and he scoots in a little closer, just in case.</p><p>“Mm, so what else are you good at?”</p><p>Patrick’s answering laugh is low and breathy and inviting, and want pools hot and thick in David’s belly. He could absolutely take this man apart, if Patrick would let him. God, he hopes Patrick will let him. The least David can do is try, to ask Patrick if he wants to come home with him, to see him again sometime, anything, because from the way Patrick’s sitting so deliciously close and comfortable, the soft yellow lamp light dancing delightedly in his eyes, David thinks he might actually say yes, and so he opens his mouth to ask, and—</p><p>“Patrick!” comes Roland's voice from the other end of the table, and David jolts upright, the other voices in the room all rushing back into his consciousness at once as he remembers where they are. “Come tell Johnny about that pickle at Pawtucket.”</p><p>Disappointment floods in to all the little nooks from which David’s desire has drained, and one of Patrick's shoulders raises up in an apologetic half shrug. “Sorry. Duty calls.”</p><p>He only makes it a couple steps before he turns back though, and David braces himself for some more of this back-and-forth that seems to be somehow becoming their habit—and he pushes down the little thrill that rises up at the idea of making Patrick Brewer a habit. Instead the curve of Patrick’s mouth goes softer, rounding itself out into something far more sincere than David has seen from him so far. </p><p>“I’m really glad you came to the game, David.”</p><p>His instinct is to brush it away as no big deal or make a joke to undercut the itchy, ill-fitting honesty of the moment. But Patrick’s looking at him with those deep, caramel eyes, and David can’t bring himself to say anything other than the truth.</p><p>“Me, too.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Wait,” Stevie says, holding up one of Jake’s furniture sketches like a crossing guard’s stop sign. “You went to a game?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Like you actually went to the stadium and sat in a box, while people were <em>actually</em> playing baseball on the field.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Okay, I’m going to ask you something, and you can be honest with me.” She reaches out to place a gentle hand on his forearm, and he sighs preemptively at whatever direction this conversation is about to take. “Are you dying?”</p><p>“Oh, fuck off!” He flings his hands in the air, throwing off Stevie’s false concern. “I’m not dying. I’m not brain damaged. I haven’t been kidnapped and replaced by a very lifelike robot—”</p><p>“How would you even know?”</p><p>“—or whatever other bad movie plot you’re about to suggest. I went to <em>one</em> game. It’s not a big deal.”</p><p>Despite his reassurances, she looks at him even more like he’s grown a second head. “David, I’ve known you since you were nine years old, and never in all that time have you willingly been within a mile of a baseball game. Remember, you even made us leave that club when Macklemore showed up in a Mariners jersey.”</p><p>“Okay, but that’s because no one’s gonna enjoy a night of bottle service next to <em>Macklemore.</em> It’s got nothing to do with—”</p><p>“I’m just saying,” she cuts in loudly, “it’s gonna take me a minute to adjust to this new reality.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes and grabs the sketch from her hand, adding it back into the stack on the coffee table. The bottle of red they’d opened when she’d dropped by with Jake’s preliminary furniture designs sits empty next to it, so David heads to the kitchen to open another, managing to refill his own glass and begrudgingly top up Stevie’s before she starts in again.</p><p>“Okay, so you went to the game. But… why?”</p><p>This is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to talk about this, but the trouble with being friends with Stevie is that she always somehow manages to get him to talk about the things he doesn’t want to talk about anyway. It’s like she can tell when he’s hiding something and knows exactly which buttons to push to get him to blurt out all his secrets. He has a strong suspicion that she might be a witch, actually.</p><p>She stares at him over the rim of her glass until he caves. “Ugh. Some <em>guy</em> dared me to.”</p><p>“‘Some guy’ dared you to go to a baseball game.”</p><p>“Basically, yeah.”</p><p>“You could have just said no.”</p><p><em>I tried,</em> David thinks. Or he tried to try at least. Maybe it was more like he wanted to try, or just that he thought he should.</p><p>“My pride was on the line,” he says. “Did Jake send a quote with this?”</p><p>She digs in her bag until she comes up with a printed list of numbers, going to hand it over before suddenly pulling it back and eyeing him with suspicion. “So this guy,” she says, and David can already tell from her tone that he’s not going to like whatever comes next. “Is he cute?”</p><p>“What? No. I—”</p><p>“Got it.” She grins, wide and wolfish. “So a cute boy wanted you to go to a baseball game with him, and you couldn’t say no. God, did he try to explain the game to you while you watched it? Did you share a hot dog? Oh oh oh, did he make you wear his baseball cap?” David shudders violently at the thought. “I hope the sex was worth having hat hair.”</p><p>“Okay, first of all, no sex is worth having hat hair. And secondly, we’re not having sex. He didn’t even go to the game with me. It’s not like that.”</p><p>He snaps his mouth closed, teeth clacking loudly, as he realizes his mistake, but it’s too late. The words are already out there. (She’s definitely a witch.)</p><p>“You went to the game by yourself,” Stevie reiterates, and David wants to melt right through the sofa. “Just went to a baseball game on your own because ‘some guy’ dared you to. ‘Some guy’ who didn’t even watch the game with you.”</p><p>“That’s— I didn’t—”</p><p>“Gee, David.” Her voice goes all falsely bright, and he hates her so much. “It sorta sounds like you went to the game to watch someone play it.”</p><p>He can’t possibly glare at her hard enough, furious at himself for being caught out.</p><p>“I thought you were done with baseball players. What happened to all that newfound willpower?</p><p><em>You try resisting Patrick Brewer,</em> he thinks, but thankfully he manages to keep that one to himself. She already knows far too much. “I like the style of the sideboard, but I think we should have Jake scale it down a bit,” he says, trying to change the subject back to the one he actually called her here to discuss, and Stevie, despite her knowing smirk, lets him.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The thing about being David Rose is that it comes with an overwhelming and sometimes crippling dose of self-doubt. Which is why he spends the next two weeks telling himself that despite their exchange at the end of dinner, there’s nothing there between him and Patrick. Sure, he had thought at the time that maybe Patrick was flirting with him a bit, but he’d also watched Patrick throughout much of dinner that night and it had seemed he was a bit like that with everyone. Confident. Casual. Funny. Charming. A likeable collection of personality traits that made him an easy conversationalist with everyone in the room. </p><p>It’s not just David. It’s not that he’s <em>into</em> David.</p><p>Besides, David has businesses to run, and that’s what he should be focused on, not this messy, one-sided crush on Patrick Brewer. </p><p>Because he knows that’s what this is now: a crush. The post-game dinner had made that very clear. What he had thought that first night was simply a physical attraction, just the desire for a quick, good fuck before they never have to see each other again, is definitely something more. He should have realized it sooner, but David is so rarely interested in baseball players—or anyone else lately—for anything more than their bodies, that he hadn’t recognized it for what it was at first. But no, he <em>likes</em> Patrick. He likes him so much that he’s got a full-blown, heart-pounding, breathless, schoolboy crush, and he wishes he could rip the feeling from his chest and bury it in the dirt.</p><p>Because there’s no way Patrick Brewer is into him, and it’s god damn ridiculous to even be tempted to sit around mooning about it. </p><p>So over the next two weeks he pours himself into work. There are still new vendors to woo, contracts to sign, decisions to make, and he focuses on those. He lets Stevie keep his schedule full with an almost overwhelming number of appointments and a black tie event or two. Lets himself pretend that he doesn’t have a secret bookmark stashed away on his phone with the Bears’ schedule so that he can see where Patrick is on any given day.</p><p>It’s nothing, he tells himself, again and again and again. There’s nothing between them. There can’t be.</p><p>And then on Saturday he finds himself at a party, the kind with an endless flow of alcohol and a smattering of coke and a heaving throng of beautiful people, beautifully dressed, swaying together against the beautiful backdrop of the glittering Manhattan skyline. It’s what should pass as a pretty typical Saturday night. And any other time, he would throw back a few too many shots, maybe do a bump, and find someone who could help push away the loneliness until morning. But every time he catches someone’s eye across the room, he pictures the warm, broad width of Patrick’s smile as he’d teased David about “the baseball things,” and the thought of pressing his lips to any others but those, of feeling any hands but Patrick’s against his skin turns sour in his stomach.</p><p>In the end there’s only one thing to do. Because even if it’s 92% likely that Patrick’s not into him, that means there’s a chance, however small, that he actually is. And the thing about being David Rose is that even in the face of an absolute fuck ton of self-doubt, if there’s a chance to do something completely reckless for the sake of trying to have someone even remotely as gorgeous and good as Patrick Brewer, he’s going to do it.</p><p>As he steps into the elevator, he sends Stevie a text.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header1"></span>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Cancel any meetings scheduled for Monday</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Can I ask why?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> No</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Ok but I’m asking anyway.</span>
</p>
</div><p>He shakes his head as he climbs into the back of a cab, giving the driver the address for his loft, already compiling a mental list of things he’ll need to pack.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Just getting out of town for the day</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> And where are you going on such short notice?</span>
</p>
</div><p>He hesitates, but ultimately she’ll pry the answer out of him either way. She probably already knows. So he wishes on the lights swimming past the window like stars that he isn’t about to break his own heart and sends back the answer.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Schitt’s Creek</span>
</p>
</div><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note3" name="note3"></a><sup>3</sup> The top of the inning is the first half, when the visiting team bats. The bottom is the second half, when the home team bats. [<a href="#return3">▲</a>]</p><p><a id="note4" name="note4"></a><sup>4</sup> It’s an RBI single. The single part means Patrick got to first base (double would mean he got to second, etc.), and RBI, or run batted in, means that another player who was already on base got the chance to run home and score because of Patrick’s hit. [<a href="#return4">▲</a>]</p><p><a id="note5" name="note5"></a><sup>5</sup> The shortstop and the second baseman typically stand on either side of second base, with the second baseman on the side closer to first base and the shortstop on the side closer to third. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baseball_positions#/media/File:Baseball_positions.svg">Here’s a chart</a>, if that helps. [<a href="#return5">▲</a>]</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Apologies to the Padres, but when deciding on the Bears’ team colors I thought to myself, what combo would David absolutely despise, and <a href="https://news.sportslogos.net/2019/11/09/padres-are-back-in-brown-unveil-new-uniforms-and-logos/">you won.</a></p><p> </p><p>Almost all modern baseball players have a chosen walk-up song, which is the song that plays as they come up to bat. It’s so ubiquitous now that you might think it’s always been part of the game, but it’s actually <a href="https://www.mlb.com/cut4/the-complete-history-of-the-walk-up-song">a pretty recent development</a>. Nancy Faust, the organist for the Chicago White Sox in the 70s, kicked off the idea by playing relevant songs to introduce particular players. It wasn’t until the early 90s though that recordings of popular music with lyrics started to be used, rather than organ versions or other instrumentals, and even then most players didn’t choose their own music. There are various stories of MLB players who individually got in on the choice, however, and between ‘94 and ‘95 the practice really took off to become more of the universal thing it is today.</p><p>Shoutout to Claire for putting up with me agonizing over song choices for this fic. She also definitely gets most of the credit for this choice because once I told her what I was looking for, she suggested that Patrick would choose a Canadian band, like Rush, and obviously then I knew it had to be “Tom Sawyer.”</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. checked swing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>This is a mistake,</em> David thinks as he stares up at the giant mural painted on the side of the stadium, horrified that someone would have commissioned this monstrosity. And yet someone did indeed commission this 40-foot tall, nonsensical image of a bear that seems to be pitching—in the entirely euphemistic sense—to a baseball player bent awkwardly over the edge of a creek. It might be under the guise of helping the player retrieve a ball from the water, but the excuse doesn’t really make the image any less indecent. What’s maybe more concerning though is the way none of the people trickling past give the eyesore a second glance, as if this is somehow what passes for normal in middle-of-nowhere New York. David shudders. Maybe it is.</p><p>
  <em>This is a mistake.</em>
</p><p>But it’s more than the horrifying mural and the casual air with which the crowd seems to accept it. It’s more than the smell of manure and sour milk wafting over from the actual, honest-to-god dairy farm across the road. It’s more than the fact that the only place to stay in town is a motel that looks like it’s one big bad wolf away from collapsing entirely (and in which he will not be setting foot, even if it means he has to drive all the way back home tonight to avoid it). </p><p>This whole thing is a mistake, coming to Schitt’s Creek, coming to the game, all of it. He’d contemplated turning back around every time traffic had slowed to a crawl, the two hour drive creeping closer to two-and-a-half, then three, then nearly four, his anxiety warring with his hope the entire time until they were finally both too entangled to distract him from simply following the directions chirped out by his GPS to his destination. But now that he’s here, he doesn’t even know where to go or what to do.</p><p>There’d been an open parking space near the back of the lot, and from there he’d managed to at least convince his feet to carry him out of the car and over to the wide expanse of pavement in front of the stadium. But does he just… buy a ticket? Is there some kind of special thing he has to ask for to get one of those suites like they’d had at the All-Star Game? And even once he manages to get into the game, how does he go about finding Patrick? And what does he say when he finds him? <em>Hi, I drove almost four hours to see if you’re possibly queer and possibly single and possibly at all interested in a man whose relationship history reads like a phonebook, even though I already know the answer is most likely no to all three—just wanted to check!</em></p><p>Okay, so maybe this wasn’t one of his more well-thought out plans.</p><p>Just as he’s contemplating giving in and calling his father for advice—on how to get into the game, not about Patrick—a cheery voice comes from behind him. “Mr. Rose?”</p><p>He turns to find a man wearing a khaki-colored sport coat over a deep yellow polo—which just, no—smiling widely at him from beneath a brown baseball cap. It’s embroidered with the Brebner’s Park logo, a matching one printed beside the <em>Ray</em> on the little plastic nametag clipped to his patch pocket.</p><p>David scrunches his brows together at the visual assault. “David,” he corrects, shaking the hand Ray extends his way. </p><p>“Ray Butani. I’m the stadium manager here at beautiful Brebner’s Park.” He gestures around at the concrete monolith behind him with something suspiciously akin to pride. David’s gaze catches once again on the inappropriate mural, and he hurries to change the subject, lest Ray ask his opinion on any of it.</p><p>“Um, how did— how did you know who I am?”</p><p>“Oh, your assistant called.” Ray turns and begins to walk back toward the stadium, still throwing his cheerful chatter in David’s direction as he goes, which he supposes means he’s supposed to follow. “She seemed very certain that you wouldn’t know where to go when you arrived and that someone would need to show you around. She said to keep an eye out for—how did she put it—a man with tall hair, in a tacky sweater, who looked like he couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag. And, well, here you are!”</p><p>His tone says that David should be impressed with Stevie’s descriptive prowess, but he’s much more concerned with the casual slight against his clothing. And his intelligence. But mostly his clothing.</p><p>Ray, however, just keeps smiling. At David. At the fans who cross their path. At the security guard who allows them through a door off to the side away from the main ticket area. “I just couldn’t pass this opportunity off to someone else. I mean, you’re David Rose! The owner of the Schitt’s Creek Bears! I always knew that someday you would come to see our wonderful facilities, and I can tell you that you won’t be disappointed.” </p><p>He leads them down a long, dingy hallway, fluorescent lights buzzing morosely overhead, and after a couple of turns and the push of the call button, they step into a tiny elevator, Ray talking all the while. It’s unclear whether he’s just unobservant of David’s obvious distaste for small talk or completely unbothered by it. </p><p>“We are the smallest Triple-A ballpark, of course, with 7,283 seats, but what we don’t have in seating we make up for in our famous Schitt’s Creek hospitality. Now, there are 25 private boxes on the Club Level, and…”</p><p>David tries his best to let Ray’s voice wash over him unheard as the elevator rises and they spill out into a small lobby with a few fans waiting in lines for various concessions. The golden smell of something frying elicits a growl from his stomach, but Ray leads them away from the food and off down another hall, this one much wider and brighter, gently curved, with doors set into one side. They stop outside the one labelled Box 13, where Ray taps a card against the electronic lock, and when the light turns green, he turns the knob and pushes the door wide with a flourish.</p><p>It’s… Well, it’s not great, if David is being honest. Certainly not as nice as the suite in Buffalo, nor as large. Instead of leather sofas and squat coffee tables, there’s a row of cracked, vinyl, bucket stools at a tall counter lining the windows overlooking the field. The walls are a dull, butter yellow that he worries is the result of decades of dust and discoloration and not an actual paint job. The television mounted on the side is far too small for the space and does nothing to distract from the complete lack of art or decor of any kind. It’s all just blank and bland in the ugliest way possible. David would almost take that horrid, indecent mural over this. </p><p>Almost.</p><p>There is, however, a private bathroom that seems decently clean and, in the kitchenette, a bar with a mini fridge, which Ray informs him has been stocked in preparation for his arrival, and he can call in orders for food from the phone on the wall beside the door. Perhaps it’s not all bad.</p><p>Once Ray has finished giving him the rundown, he hands over the electronic key card along with a business card from which a tiny, printed Ray grins up at him from beside a list of several phone numbers. “If you need anything at all, David, please don’t hesitate to ask. The top number is for my office here, and the next my cell. You can use the others if you need any help with business management, real estate, travel, podcasting, closet organization, or photography.”</p><p>“Well, I won’t be needing… any… of that, but thank you,” David says as politely as he can manage, not-so-subtly gesturing toward the door. </p><p>Ten minutes later, he’s only inches nearer to accomplishing his goal of shutting Ray on the other side, when it occurs to him that he actually could use his help after all.</p><p>“Ray,” he interrupts. “You seem like a very… social person. Would you have a way to get a message to a player?”</p><p>“Certainly! Roland and I are great friends. You see, we’re on the town council together, and I helped him win his bid for re-election as mayor, although no one was running against him. Actually no one’s ever run against him. The Schitts have held the mayorship ever since they first founded the town back in 1895. But Roland says his popularity as team manager is what keeps getting him re-elected and not his family’s—”</p><p>“That’s wonderful,” David lies. “So what I’m hearing is that you <em>can</em> get a message to a player, through Roland.” He’d certainly prefer not to involve Roland in any way in his love life. Potential love life. Well, not <em>love</em> life. It’s not like he’s going to fall in love with— “Patrick Brewer. That’s who I, um… I need to get a message to Patrick Brewer.”</p><p>“Oh! Brewer is the best catcher we’ve had in years, <em>and</em> he’s on a 14-game hitting streak! The Bears are very lucky to have snagged him away from—”</p><p>“Mhmm, we sure are.” David doesn’t strangle him, but his fingers twitch hard enough that he has to clasp them together to be sure. “I just need you to tell Roland…” He swallows down his distaste before it can spill out of his mouth and all over Ray’s practical, brown penny loafers. “Tell Roland that I need to meet with Patrick after the game. To, uh, to discuss a… team matter? So if you could just go and, you know, pass that along…”</p><p>“Of course! I’ll come back and let you know once the message has been received.”</p><p>“Oh that’s not necessary!” David forces out a laugh. “You can just call me. On the phone here.”</p><p>And with that, he finally manages to usher Ray out of the room and put a door between them. Now all he has to do is wait who knows how long to find out if Patrick will even want to see him. He takes a deep breath and steps behind the bar. This definitely calls for a drink.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Two bottom-shelf martinis and a countless number of breathing exercises later, David’s pacing turns him past the windows once again, and he realizes the seats are emptier than they had been, the crowd filing into the aisles and out toward the exits. The game is over.</p><p>The game is over, and Ray hasn’t called, which means either he didn’t deliver the message in the first place or he did and Patrick had laughed in his face. Maybe they’re even laughing about it together now, cracking up over David coming all the way to Schitt’s Creek just for Patrick to confirm that he’s not interested, that he’s just a nice guy who was making friendly conversation, that he’s straight and very much unavailable because of course he is because people like to date people like Patrick.</p><p>People do not like to date people like David Rose. Especially people like Patrick Br—</p><p>The sharp trill of a ringing phone cuts through his thoughts, and David trips over his own feet in his haste to answer it, narrowly avoiding slamming his elbow into the edge of the bar.</p><p>“H-hello?”</p><p>“David?” He’d expected Ray, but the voice on the other end of the line is familiar and warm in a way that immediately slows every quaking nerve in David’s body. “It’s Patrick. Brewer,” he adds unnecessarily. “Roland said you wanted to talk to me about the team or something?”</p><p>“Yeah. Yes. I, um…” </p><p>He really should have spent the last few hours thinking of an actual excuse for being here. What is he supposed to say? Not the truth. David may have given in to his reckless desires in coming here, but he isn’t stupid enough to just tell Patrick that.</p><p>The silence stretches on long enough to become uncomfortable, but Patrick thankfully brings it to an end. “Okay, well, whatever it is, would you want to talk about it over dinner? I know it’s late, but—”</p><p>“No! It’s— I mean, not ‘no’ to—” He huffs out a frustrated breath and tries again. “Yes, we can have dinner.”</p><p>“Great.” Patrick says the word like he actually means it somehow, like he really thinks dinner with David could be a great time, and the pleasure of it soaks into David’s skin like sunshine. “Well, I gotta... shower and everything. Give me like half an hour? We can meet in the player’s lot. I’m in space twelve.”</p><p>David tries very hard not to picture Patrick in the shower, all pink, slick skin and— He gives himself a vigorous shake. “Yes. Okay. I’ll see you then.”</p><p>“Looking forward to it, boss,” Patrick replies, laughing quietly at the sound of David’s groan.</p><p>David hangs up on him. </p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By the time David freaks out a bit and then manages to navigate the labyrinth of stadium hallways to find his way back outside and over to the player’s parking lot, Patrick is already there leaning against the side of a sensible, boring, mid-range sedan. His blazer-and-jeans combo should be just as boring, and yet somehow the look works for him, particularly in the way the denim stretches enticingly across his hips and thighs and calves.</p><p>“Almost didn’t see you there through the mad rush of the post-game crowd.” David gestures at the mostly empty lot surrounding them, quietly delighting in the way the corners of Patrick’s mouth curl up in response.</p><p>“I’m just so relieved I told you my space number so you didn’t get lost.” </p><p>He’s fully grinning now, and even in the ugly, buzzing, orange glow of the parking lot lights, he’s more beautiful than David had remembered. <em>That mouth,</em> he thinks. That mouth is going to get him into trouble.</p><p>“Hungry?”</p><p>“Starving.”</p><p>“Get in.” Patrick opens the door for him. “Let’s grab a bite.”</p><p>David’s lips twitch with a hint of a smile when he slides into the passenger seat and Patrick closes the door after him. It’s oddly chivalrous, like something a date would do, and a small thrill of pleasure runs through him at the gesture, though he tries his best not to let his imagination run away with him either. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Nor does Patrick asking him to dinner. It’s probably just supposed to be a quick meal between friends, if that’s what they are now, or maybe they just don’t feed them at the ballpark. It’s not necessarily supposed to be Dinner.</p><p>“So,” Patrick says when they’re out of the lot and cruising comfortably toward the center of Schitt’s Creek, “what are you in town for?”</p><p>“Oh, you know, just passing through.” </p><p>He can practically hear Patrick’s eyes narrow with suspicion. “And you just happened to find yourself at the stadium, during a game?”</p><p>“Yes. That’s… almost entirely correct.”</p><p>“David.”</p><p>The car rattles unnervingly as they cross a set of railroad tracks in front of the old, utilitarian town hall, and David lets it shake another half-truth out of him. “Fine. <em>Someone</em> may have reminded me that I own a baseball team, and I thought that maybe I should just, you know, check in on that. On the team. See how they’re… doing.”</p><p>They pull up to a stop sign, and Patrick turns to look at him across the car, the lights of the dash caressing the curve of his ear and the crest of his cheek with a ghostly blue glow. “Is that what this is? Just checking in on your employees?” </p><p>His tone is light, but there’s something hesitant and careful in his eyes. David swallows hard, still reluctant to put himself out there without knowing what Patrick might want out of this, what answer he’s looking for. It’s such a rare experience for him—not knowing. Normally, he can tell from the way people look at him whether they want him for his money, for his connections, or for his body. But Patrick doesn’t look at him the way anyone else ever has, and these few times they’ve met, David has found himself in uncharted waters, constantly in danger of drowning.</p><p>“Not entirely,” he offers, hoping it’s enough for now.</p><p>But Patrick presses further, and David squirms under his continued gaze, the car still stubbornly stopped at the intersection despite the lack of traffic crossing their path. “So what did you want to talk to me about then? That’s what Roland said, that you wanted to talk about something to do with the team.”</p><p>“Oh. I wanted to talk to you about, um...”</p><p>He could lie again, maybe say something about wanting to discuss changing the color of the Bears’ uniforms. That’s certainly the kind of thing people would expect him to have opinions about. (He does, of course. He has plenty, but that’s certainly not why he’s here.) And maybe Patrick would let him get away with it this time. Maybe he would give in and let David hide. But David looks at that guarded, fragile thing still sheltering deep in Patrick’s eyes, and he can’t do it. </p><p>“I…” His voice shakes as he tries again, forcing himself to be braver than he feels. “I wanted to talk to you. That’s— That’s it. I wanted to talk to you.”</p><p>Patrick looks at him a little longer, his gaze bouncing all around David’s face as if trying to read something written across his brows and cheeks and chin. Finally, he turns back to the road. “I need to make a pit stop.”</p><p>Whatever for, David doesn’t know, but it’s not like he’s going to say no.</p><p>A short way past a darkened general store plastered with <em>going out of business</em> signs, they pull into the driveway of a drab little one-story home. Patrick pops inside and bounds back out again before David can manage to take in much more than the sad state of the landscaping and the mismatched bricks on the detached garage.</p><p>“So this is your house,” he says as Patrick backs down the driveway and turns them back in the direction they’d come.</p><p>“Not up to your standards?”</p><p>“No, it’s…” With his mother’s proclivity for precise vocabulary, David thinks he should be able to come up with something, but he finds himself at a loss.</p><p>Patrick, thankfully, doesn’t seem to mind. “Don’t worry, I’m just renting. Wasn’t sure how long I’d be here, and, believe me, it was the best option Ray showed me in my price range.”</p><p>“Ray from the stadium?” David’s voice rises with his incredulity. “That explains so much.”</p><p>Before he can expound on that further, however, they’re pulling into a surprisingly full gravel parking lot across from the abandoned general store. Even though it’s nearly midnight, the restaurant is more than half full when they step inside. A few people throw nods and waves Patrick’s way, and he returns them politely as he leads David to a booth against the wall. The benches match the Bears’ drab yellow and brown color palette, and David wonders yet again if there’s a single person in this town who has a modicum of taste.</p><p>A waitress appears as soon as they’re settled, her smile wholesome and sincere as she greets Patrick like an old friend and introduces herself to David with the same warmth. She hands them each what turns out to be the largest menus David has ever seen in his life; when he unfolds his all the way, it spreads the entire length of the table, mocking him with options for breakfast <em>and</em> pasta <em>and</em> sushi.</p><p>“What is this place?” he asks, his abject horror obvious in the pitch of his voice.</p><p>“Cafe Tropical is Schitt’s Creek’s finest restaurant.”</p><p>He looks up from the disaster of a menu to find Patrick smirking at him across the table, his menu still closed. “The only way that’s true is if it’s Schitt’s Creek’s only restaurant.”</p><p>“Oh, it is.”</p><p>“You’re joking.”</p><p>“I’m not,” Patrick replies. “You really haven’t spent much time here, have you?”</p><p>“Uh, no. This— This is the first time I’ve been here. Ever.”</p><p>“Wow.” Patrick’s eyes are wide, but that tempting mouth of his is still smirking. “That is shocking news.”</p><p>David barely manages not to smack him with the menu, choosing instead to raise it between them like a shield, blocking out Patrick’s teasing or at least his view of just how much David enjoys it. “So is anything actually good here, or is this just, like, food poisoning Russian roulette?”</p><p>“Well, the <i>Elmdale Chronicle</i>’s annual review said the food continues to be ‘moderately edible.’” He chuckles as David gives up with a huff, refolding his menu emphatically. “But the hot dogs are actually pretty good. Plus it’s a post-game tradition.” He waves a hand toward the other patrons, and indeed nearly everyone else is eating a hot dog of some kind. </p><p>Twyla returns, and David orders two chili cheese dogs, assuming it’s either the safest option or they’ll all be able to take this place down together in some kind of class-action lawsuit. Patrick gets the same, plus an order of mozzarella sticks to share. </p><p>Alone again, without driving or menus as a distraction, they lapse into an uneasy silence, the first of their acquaintance. One thumb rubs restless circles back and forth across Patrick’s palm, and David has the nonsensical urge to reach out and touch him, to slip his hand into that space instead and soothe that anxious need. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that Patrick might be nervous about this, too, and it eases that sliver of aching fear fluttering deep down in his belly. </p><p>“Uh, speaking of firsts…” Patrick starts suddenly, clearing his throat. “I’ve got something for you.”</p><p>He pulls that something from the pocket of his blazer, something wrapped in a navy handkerchief, and places it carefully in front of David. There’s a stilted caution to his movements that David hasn’t seen from him before, and when he drags the handkerchief away, there’s a baseball on the table.</p><p>“It’s, um, it’s from the All-Star Game,” he explains when David looks up to meet his eye. “I know it was your first game ever, and I just… I have a ball from my first game. The first one my dad took me to as a kid. And I just thought, I don’t know, I guess I thought you should have one from your first game, too.”</p><p>David watches him carefully, something tender and warm rising in his chest like a breath of summer air.</p><p>“I mean, it’s not an important ball, you know, it’s not from my home run or anything—some kid probably has that, I hope—but it’s, well, it’s nothing really, but I—”</p><p>“This...” David interrupts, picking up the ball gingerly and pressing his lips together hard to keep some of these messy emotions tickling at his throat from slipping out. Patrick had taken home a ball from the game, probably with the intention of keeping it himself. That’s a thing people do, David knows. His dad has a whole collection of balls from important games and important people, encased in glass on a shelf in the lounge. But Patrick hasn’t kept this one for himself. Instead he’s brought it here and given it to David because it had been his first baseball game ever, and he thought David should have a ball to commemorate the occasion. And though he can’t be sure whether this is a friendly gesture or a <em>something more</em> kind of gesture, he recognizes it for the gift it is either way. He takes a breath and tries again. “This is not nothing. So thank you.”</p><p>Patrick’s answering smile is small but so very sweet, and David thinks for the hundredth time already tonight about how he’d very much like to kiss him. </p><p>And maybe, just maybe, with the way Patrick is looking at him, all pink-cheeked and soft-eyed, maybe he’s thinking about that, too.</p><p>But Twyla arrives with their mozzarella sticks then, and there are suddenly more pressing concerns.</p><p>“Wow.” David frowns at the greasy, reheated mess. “Look at those.”</p><p>Patrick grimaces but bravely picks one up, raising it like he would a glass for a toast and waiting for David to do the same. “To the Bears,” he says, tapping his mozzarella stick against David’s and then taking a bite.</p><p>From there, talk is easier, and the night passes them by far faster than David would like. The mozzarella sticks mostly go uneaten, but the hot dogs are actually pretty good. The company, however, is better, and they laugh their way through a recap of tonight’s game, with David admitting he saw practically none of it (though not why). He tells Patrick a bit more about the gallery and the store and his work on the newest location, too, and in return Patrick tells him a little about joining the Bears. He learns that this is Patrick’s first season in Schitt’s Creek, that he played most recently for a team called the Toledo Mud Hens, a name he assures David he did not in fact make up and eventually has to resort to a quick internet search to prove, and that after he’d become something called a free agent, he’d chosen to sign a contract that would bring him here, though precisely why David isn’t sure. This doesn’t seem to be the kind of place anyone would actively choose over other options. And yet, David had chosen to come here tonight, so maybe it isn’t such a stretch to think something could have brought Patrick here, too. Maybe it isn’t all as horrific as this sad excuse for a diner and the giant, bear-fucking mural would have him believe.</p><p>Or, okay, maybe it is, but still there must have been a reason Patrick had chosen this place when he could have gone literally anywhere else.</p><p>Before they can delve too far into that subject, however, Twyla is telling them she needs to lock up, and David is surprised to discover that they’re the last remaining patrons in the restaurant. Patrick pulls out his credit card despite David’s insistence that he can pay, and they’re in the car on the way back to the stadium before he can think up an excuse to extend the night any longer.</p><p>The ride back is quieter, the low murmur of the radio wrapping them up together in its whispered embrace. It’s warm and comfortable and surprisingly pleasant, and though David’s never been a stranger to silence, it isn’t often that he’s felt so calmed by it. And while there is a portion of his mind stuck on an endless loop of <em>is this a date or isn’t it,</em> he’s mostly just content to enjoy a few more minutes in Patrick’s presence. It’s been a long time since he’s had such an effortlessly good time, and he wants to savor it for as long as he possibly can.</p><p>“Well, that was a fun night,” he says when they pull into the space beside his car, the only one left in the stadium lot. “Thank you for dinner. And the gift.”</p><p>He expects a joke or a tease in return, but Patrick is looking at him again the way he had when giving him the ball, the way he had when he’d turned back to say he was glad David had come to the All-Star Game, radiant with sincerity. <em>Maybe,</em> David thinks again, letting it rise up into the night like a starry-eyed wish. <em>Maybe, maybe, maybe.</em></p><p>“You’re very welcome, David.” </p><p>He’s 91% sure Patrick’s gaze flickers purposefully to his mouth and back again, or maybe more like 84%. Okay, it’s probably closer to a generous 72% at best, but that still feels like a stronger sign than anything else tonight, and he lets his own unsubtle gaze drop to those tempting lips to make his interest clear. There’s a long, breathless moment of stillness, all his hope and all his longing quivering in his belly, and—</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Nothing happens at all. </p><p>Patrick doesn’t move, and whether David’s read this all wrong or all those boss jokes maybe weren’t really jokes or there’s something in his teeth or Patrick had been flirting but has now changed his mind or any of a million other reasons that they’re now just stiltedly staring at each other in the dark, David isn’t sure. He isn’t sure, and Patrick doesn’t move, so David turns away before things can get awkward, or more awkward at least, trying to come up with a joke or a quip, some kind of magic statement that will get him out of this car without wanting to pitch himself off the nearest bridge. </p><p>Thankfully he’s rescued by a soft buzzing sound from Patrick’s jacket pocket, not once, but a few times in succession, just enough of a distraction to snake its way up between them and break the sticky silence. Patrick pulls out his phone, frowning at whatever notifications he finds there.</p><p>“Do you need to—”</p><p>“No. It’s nothing important. Just my agent.” He pockets the phone again, and David rushes on before he can make any more of a fool of himself than he probably already has.</p><p>“Well, I, um, I guess I should go. I have to find a hotel somewhere still, or drive back to the city, I don’t know.”</p><p>“Not up for braving the Schitt’s Creek Motel?”</p><p>“There are a lot more fun ways to get tetanus if I wanted it.” Patrick chuckles, shrugging as if to say <em>suit yourself</em>, and David absolutely does not take a moment to memorize the sound. <em>This is fine,</em> he tells himself. <em>It’s okay. Maybe better this way actually. Less messy.</em> “Okay, I’m gonna…”</p><p>He gets out of the car, and Patrick calls out to him as soon as the door is closed. David dips down to peek back in through the open window.</p><p>“I really did have a good time tonight.”</p><p>‘Me, too,” David admits. For a moment, Patrick looks like he might say something else, but the silence goes on for a beat too long and David takes the choice out of his hands to save them both from any further embarrassment. “Good night, Patrick.”</p><p>“Good night, David.”</p><p>There’s nothing else for him to do then but climb into his car, nestle his new baseball carefully into the seat beside him, and set his GPS for home.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes, Schitt’s Creek is in New York instead of Canada in this fic, largely because there are no Triple-A baseball teams anywhere in Canada. In fact, out of all 261 MiLB teams, only ONE is located in Canada—the Vancouver Canadians, a Class A Short Season team. It just made more sense then for SC to be in the U.S. here. Also, it makes it way easier for David to drive back and forth, so that’s a nice bonus. Is it kinda weird still? Yes. But we’re rolling with it anyway.</p><p> </p><p>For today’s fun fact, obviously Brebner’s Park doesn’t exist and therefore is not really the smallest Triple-A ballpark. In reality, that title belongs to Coca-Cola Park in Allentown, PA, home of the Lehigh Valley IronPigs, which has 8,278 seats. (I used to teach colorguard at a high school with a bigger basketball arena than that, lolol.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. changeup</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Patrick isn’t interested in him, and it’s fine. It’s fine when David drives back to his loft and fine when he crawls into bed alone and fine when he rolls into the flagship Rose Apothecary on Tuesday afternoon with a giant iced coffee, a bigger headache, and a sudden need to reorganize the entire stockroom. </p><p>He had tried, and that’s what matters. He’d gone to Schitt’s Creek and met up with Patrick, and they’d had a perfectly nice dinner. Patrick had given him a gift, yes, but at the end of the night, he hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t said anything about wanting to see him again, hadn’t made any effort to indicate in any way that he was interested in anything more, and so David had gotten the answer he needed, even if it wasn’t the one he wanted, and it’s fine. They can be friendly acquaintances who are genuinely pleased when they inevitably bump into each other at next year’s All-Star party or whatever, the kind who spend a few minutes happily catching up and then don’t think about each other again at all until the next time it happens.</p><p>It’s fine.</p><p>The stockroom reorganization takes more time than he intends—and his sleep that night less—so on Wednesday David finds himself headed back to Fort Greene well before he’s usually even awake. A start this early requires a stop at one of his favorite bakeries, so he joins the line already forming out the door to get something sweet to pair with the hideous amount of caffeine he’s going to need to get through the day.</p><p>His phone vibrates with an incoming text as he waits. It’s from a number he doesn’t know, and his thumb is already over the delete button before he actually reads the message.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header2"></span>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>502-046-4290:</em></span> Hi, David. It’s Patrick.</span>
</p>
</div><p>A second message and then a third arrives just as quickly, and he bites back a smile, his pulse kicking up even as he rolls his eyes.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Brewer.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Your employee.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> I’m not your boss, and how did you even get my number?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Skill.</span>
</p>
</div><p>He thinks he’s cute; David absolutely refuses to let him be right about that.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Well?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I may have gotten a peek at your dad’s secretary’s # on Roland’s phone.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> And I may have called her pretending to be a vendor for your store to get your PA’s #.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I asked her to give you my # but she just gave me yours and told me to “pass on your own fucking messages.”</span>
</p>
</div><p>At his bark of laughter, the woman in front of him in line shoots a scowl over her shoulder and scoots a little farther away. He inches closer to her again just because he can.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Yeah, Stevie doesn’t do messages</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Or coffee</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Or mail</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Wow. She sounds like a great PA.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Oh, she’s the worst</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> But her cousin grows the best weed, so I take what I can get</span>
</p>
</div><p>Patrick sends back a thumbs up emoji as David makes it to the counter and orders his typical two almond croissants, and as he steps to the side to wait for both his pastries and another message, he lets himself ponder the question that’s been looping through his mind since the first message arrived: <em>what do you want from me?</em> David had been certain when he’d left Schitt’s Creek that that would be the end of it, that Patrick would have done something—anything—that night to let him know for sure that he was interested if that were the case. The last thing he could have expected is for Patrick to seek him out, going through the effort of contacting multiple people in an attempt to get David’s number, and all for what? </p><p>His croissants arrive before any kind of answer does, and when he steps back out onto the sidewalk, he takes matters into his own hands.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> So is there something I can help you with?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> You already are.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Have you ever been on a bus?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Actually, forget that I asked. Why would you have been on a bus?</span>
</p>
</div><p>Affronted, David clamps his lips around the bakery bag so that he can use both hands to send back his response.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> I’ll have you know I went to Shia LaBeouf’s 2012 back to school party, so I’ve been on FOUR buses, thank you very much</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> You took 4 buses just to get to a party?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Oh no</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> The party was ON the buses</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Each one had a different theme with music and cocktails to match</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Not exactly what I meant.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Why are we talking about buses anyway?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Because I’m on a bus right now.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Oh god</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Why?</span>
</p>
</div><p>Navigating the early morning foot traffic while juggling his phone and the bakery bag without smashing either on the pavement is a complicated task, but he manages to make it to the store and let himself in the front door without incident, his shoulders relaxing as he breathes in the familiar air. There are more messages waiting for him by the time he settles in at his desk in the back.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I still don’t understand how you can know so little about baseball.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I’m on the team bus on the way to Lehigh Valley for a two game series.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> That means we’re playing two games there, in case that wasn’t clear.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Funnily enough, I had figured that much out for myself</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> You have to take the bus for that?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Be honest. Did you have to google it?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> And yeah, how else would we get there?</span>
</p>
</div><p>The urge to send back a middle finger emoji is strong, and he would without a second thought if it were Stevie on the receiving end. But this is Patrick, and they don’t have that kind of relationship. They don’t have any kind of relationship at all actually, and until twenty minutes ago, David had assumed they never would. But here’s Patrick treating him like... well, like a friend. </p><p>It’s been a long time since David made a new friend. A real one, anyway. The last one he’d made was Stevie, he supposes. He was nine at the time, and she’d caught him sneaking out of the gym during open rec time at their sleepaway camp; he’d tried to tell her he had permission, but she’d called him on the lie, and then surprised him even more by asking if she could come with him. They’d been joined at the hip ever since. </p><p>He’d like that, David thinks, being real friends with Patrick. It’s better than nothing at all, and maybe he could use more people like Patrick Brewer in his life. He gets up and turns on the little coffee maker that he still hasn’t managed to trade out for an espresso machine like he’d intended, waiting for the water to start dripping into the pot before he sends back a reply.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> No. And flying, like normal people</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I hate to break it to you, but pretty much only major league teams fly. Minor league teams take buses.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Unless you want to start paying for us to fly, of course, in which case I have no objections.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> It’s better than Toledo though. At least this bus has A/C.</span>
</p>
</div><p>If Patrick is joking about that, he doesn’t let on, and David makes a mental note to ask his dad about it.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> I’ll see what I can do</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> How is this helping anyway?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> ?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> You said earlier I was helping. How is this helping you?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I’m spending 2 and a half hours on a bus. I need SOME kind of entertainment.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> So I’m just here for your entertainment then</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Well you are very entertaining.</span>
</p>
</div><p>He hates that he can picture the exact shape of Patrick’s teasing smirk, and as three dots appear and disappear on the screen, he wonders what other quips are in store for him. Patrick seems to have an endless supply of them at hand, ready to toss David’s way and see what sticks. It must take him a while to decide on one though, as David is already stirring two packets of sugar into his coffee before his phone finally vibrates again.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> It’s not just that though.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I like talking to you.</span>
</p>
</div><p>His spoon stutters to a stop, silence ringing loud in the stillness. </p><p>
  <em>Huh.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s… new.</em>
</p><p>Not even Stevie would say that, he’s pretty sure. And yet for all his ribbing, Patrick has yet to joke about anything like this—in fact, he’s been nothing but achingly earnest in these kinds of moments—leaving David no choice but to try to take him at his word, novel as it may be.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> We’re pulling in now though, so I have to go. Can we talk some more later?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> We can talk whenever you’d like</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Just preferably not before 10 AM next time</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> I’m not really a morning person</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Can do.</span>
</p>
</div><p>David closes their message thread, pulls up his morning playlist, drops his phone into the speaker dock, and lets the sound of Beyoncé lure him into the stockroom to start on the day’s work. And for the first time since he’d gotten out of Patrick’s car on Monday night, he thinks things might actually be fine.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>True to his word, Patrick texts him that night after the game. And the next morning at precisely 10 AM, just to be a shit. He texts David from the stadium before the second game, too, and from the bus on the way home again.</p><p>Despite what Patrick had said and despite the fact that the messages keep coming, David still finds it hard to believe that Patrick might really want to be friends. He isn’t used to people wanting to talk to him, at least not for any longer than it takes to get an uber back to their place, but Patrick keeps texting, so David keeps replying and trying his best to silence the voice that keeps asking what it is that Patrick really wants from him. </p><p>He’s going with the flow. It isn’t something he has a lot of experience with, but it’s getting easier each time he gets another message just to run with it. Because the fact of the matter is that he likes talking to Patrick, and even if he doesn’t know exactly what this is, he does know he wants to keep talking. So they do.</p><p>Which is how on Saturday night he finds himself not at a party with New York’s hottest elite, not at Stevie’s getting crossfaded, not even in the cool, crisp comfort of his own bed, but instead in Elmdale, the next town over from Schitt’s Creek, in a tacky, stale-smelling suite at the country’s shittiest Holiday Inn. </p><p>Patrick had texted just before the game to ask if he wanted to go for hot dogs after, but David had still been in the city, camped out on his sofa in his favorite cashmere joggers, intent on ordering enough Chinese delivery to last him through Monday. Of course, he’d known abstractly that the team was playing in Schitt’s Creek this weekend, but it hadn’t even occurred to him that Patrick would expect him to be at the game. </p><p>So he’d had to tell Patrick that he wasn’t in town, and the disappointed little <em>ok</em> he’d gotten in reply had made him immediately start packing an overnight bag. He’d been out the door in less than half an hour.</p><p>Unfortunately, traffic had proven to be a nightmare, and it’s now far too late to go out tonight, especially since Patrick has an early game tomorrow, a fact he’d reminded David of four times before turning in for the night.</p><p>So instead David is alone in Elmdale on a Saturday night. It’s only a shade better than Schitt’s Creek, and he’s not sure his life has ever taken a more depressing turn. At least he’d come prepared, knowing he was unlikely to find anything close to luxury out here. He strips the undoubtedly disgusting bedding from the mattress and kicks it into the corner. After thoroughly washing his hands, he slips a clean set of sheets onto the bed, pulled from the linen closet in his second bedroom before he’d left home. The flat, cheap, down alternative pillows get replaced with two custom-stuffed pillows of his own, and instead of the ratty comforter that would be best served by dropping it into a bonfire, he drapes a heavy chenille blanket across the foot of the bed. It’s not perfect, but it’s a decided improvement. After taking care of his nightly skin care regimen and hanging up the clothes he’d packed in his bag, he crawls into bed with a satisfied sigh, flips off the lights, and pulls up Patrick’s last message.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header3"></span>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> See you tomorrow, boss.</span>
</p>
</div><p>As much as he hates the nickname, sleep finds him with a smile still on his face.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The aesthetic, it turns out, is the least of David’s problems with Box 13. The real problem is that he’s directly behind home plate. </p><p>Ray assures him that this is what many people consider to be an ideal place to watch a game, and that might be true of people who want to watch baseball. But David is here to watch Patrick, which is proving largely impossible because there’s a man standing directly behind where he’s crouched down at home plate, blocking him mostly from view. </p><p>A search on his phone tells David the man is an umpire, and apparently he’s the one who makes sure everyone follows the rules and who decides which pitches are strikes and which are balls. (He understands what balls are now, too, though he still thinks someone should have really come up with some other name for them.) It makes sense then that the umpire would need to stand behind Patrick so that he can see where the pitches line up with the strike zone, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying. The most he can see of Patrick right now is an elbow and a padded knee, occasionally the side of a thigh as he shifts to one side of the plate or the other. It’s a tantalizing glimpse for sure, leaving him thinking about how those thighs would look flexing under David’s hands, all that time Patrick spends squatting put to good use as he flexes, pistoning himself up and down as he rides David’s—</p><p>No. Nope. He’s not supposed to be thinking about that. Again. He and Patrick are friends. Or at least that may be what they’re working toward. Friends is the most that they’re ever going to be, and David has to stop picturing him naked, stop thinking about firm muscles and sweat-slicked skin and—</p><p>It’s proving difficult, however, to get his brain fully on-board with thinking of Patrick as a friend and not someone to potentially fuck, but he has to if he’s going to manage not to ruin this. His attraction to Patrick is surely the fastest way to make that happen, which means he needs to work extra hard to keep it at bay.</p><p>The pitcher throws a ball, Patrick shifting smoothly to his right to catch it and affording David a peek at a shoulder and a hip this time. It’s ridiculous that such a chaste glimpse should so easily pique his interest, and he tamps every rising urge back down with the weight of a heavy sigh, looking away and busying himself on his phone for a while instead. </p><p>There’s an email from Brenda, confirming her first delivery of stock for the new store on Monday morning. He browses for a few cozy pieces he could use to replace the dreadful furniture in this suite in case he ends up spending any more time here. Vogue has an article on the new, shortened New York Fashion Week schedule, and he sends Stevie a reminder to snag a few show invites for him and Alexis.</p><p>Eventually, his thoughts trail back to Patrick though, and he types his name into the search bar, tapping first on the Wikipedia page that comes up. It’s little more than a stub, however, listing a few college and minor league stats that David doesn’t understand, his hometown (Picton, Ontario), his age (28), and the name of his agent (Shell Myers). He clicks back and into a handful of articles that mention him amidst some discussion of the Bears’ thus far winning season. Those mentions are brief though, so he pulls up a few more pages, finally finding a feature from the <i>Picton Gazette</i>, the weekly paper in Patrick’s hometown. </p><p>The whole thing is very local boy makes good, covering his Little League days on a team coached by his uncle, his contribution to his school’s provincial championship, his drafting by Detroit out of college, and a couple minor injuries that have seemingly slowed his progress toward the majors. It’s a fascinating look into a world David hardly understands, but the best part by far is the photos. Tiny Patrick in a too-big helmet, auburn curls peeking out from underneath to catch the sunlight. Teenage Patrick, gangly and awkward but smiling brightly from his place in the line with his teammates. A much more recent photo of Patrick in some other team’s uniform, tucked in between a beaming man and woman who must be his parents. The sight makes David ache in a way he can’t quite name, and after saving the pictures to his phone and bookmarking the article, he forces himself to close the tab and think about something else.</p><p>He ends up mindlessly scrolling Instagram in further efforts to distract himself, swiping past image after image of nose jobs and nights out and new cars. His parents seem to be staying with Michael and Catherine in Mallorca this month. Some friends are spending a week on a yacht off the coast of Montenegro. His sister is much closer to home, frolicking around Chicago with some redhead she’s calling a <em>new friend,</em> whatever thing she had going with the Jays’ team doctor last month over already as she bounces on to the next hot, new thing.</p><p>Maybe David should do that, find himself a hot, new someone. He’d thought for a minute of course that that might be Patrick, but if they’re really going to just be friends, finding someone else with whom to spend a night or two might help extinguish this lingering heat he feels burning in his belly every time he thinks of the man now standing up from behind home plate and jogging over to the—David does another quick search—dugout as this half of the inning comes to an end.</p><p><em>Yeah,</em> he thinks, forcing his gaze away from the tempting curve of Patrick’s ass once more. <em>I really need to get laid.</em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Where are we going?” David asks, buckling himself tightly into the passenger seat of Patrick’s death trap of a car.</p><p>Patrick’s lips twitch toward a smile and then back again, never quite committing to the expression. It’s a nervous thing, David thinks, and he’s glad to not be the only one feeling a little jittery. “You’ll see.”</p><p>Patience is not anywhere close to being David’s strong suit though. “Not hot dogs?”</p><p>“Not hot dogs.”</p><p>He’s unsure if he’s relieved or disappointed by that answer. He finds that he’s unsure about a lot of things around Patrick actually.</p><p>“I thought you said that was the only restaurant in town though.”</p><p>“It is.”</p><p>“Okay, well, not to be pushy, but I’m going to need to eat in the next thirty minutes, or I’m going to get very cranky.” It’s perhaps not the most endearing thing he could say about himself, but Patrick smiles like he’s charmed anyway.</p><p>“Relax, David. I won’t let you starve to death. We’re just going to Elmdale.” A glance at David’s face brings him up short though. “What?”</p><p>“Um, it’s just that I’ve been to Elmdale now, and, well, I don’t know that there’s much there worth revisiting.”</p><p>Patrick chuckles. “David, it’s going to be fine.” </p><p>That’s as forthcoming as he gets about it. But he lets David take control of the radio, and he asks about the store and lets David rant about his sister, and David starts to believe that maybe things really are going to be fine.</p><p>But then they pull into the parking lot of a small building with a chipped and fading sign that says <i>The Graffitied Grape,</i> and he realizes he’s been lulled into a false sense of security.</p><p>“What is this?” he asks, his trepidation more evident in his voice than he would like.</p><p>“Well.” Patrick shuts off the car and unbuckles his seatbelt to better turn and face him. “I know this isn’t really a gallery or a proper studio or anything, but this is… probably the closest thing to art we’re gonna get in Elm County.” David looks at the building again and raises his eyebrows right up to the roof of Patrick’s car. “I thought maybe we could give it a try.”</p><p>“Give what a try?” David asks, still not entirely following.</p><p>“It’s a wine and painting night.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>David’s heard of these. They’ve popped up all over the place—a “fun” night out for boozy old ladies, tacky bachelorette parties, and all sorts of other tawdry people who’ve never seen anything even approximating real art. And Patrick wants him to try this. Because David runs an art gallery and because Patrick is thoughtful and had considered things that David might like and tried to take him somewhere that would appeal to his interests. Like a wine and painting night.</p><p>“I—” He swallows heavily and reaches for something to say. Anything. Patrick is looking at him expectantly, and he just needs any words at all to say in response to this. Somehow what he manages is, “I don’t have anything to wear.”</p><p>Patrick’s mouth curls like he thinks David’s being cute, but David isn’t being cute. David is being practical, which is shocking because David is never practical, and it clearly should be a sign that something is very wrong. But Patrick doesn’t know that because Patrick thinks it’s normal to be practical. Because Patrick is the normal, practical kind of person who would bring a friend to a wine and painting night because they run an art gallery and this is the closest he could find to art in this cultural black hole. </p><p>“I’m pretty sure you can paint in a sweater.”</p><p>“<em>You</em> can paint in a sweater maybe,” David answers, nearly hysterical now. “This is Givenchy. I’m not risking getting <em>dollar store</em> paint on it.”</p><p>“Okay, well, just… why don’t you take it off then?” David looks up in time to catch Patrick blushing furiously. “You— I meant— You’re clearly wearing a t-shirt under it. So just take off the sweater and leave the t-shirt.”</p><p>David scoffs, loudly and pointedly. <em>That’s not the point,</em> he wants to say. The shirt is designer, too, of course, and while the cost of replacing it would be just a drop in the bucket, it’s the principle of the thing. He has <em>standards.</em> That’s what he tells himself at least. Mostly he just wants to argue for the sake of arguing, even if he doesn’t have good reason to; he knows he’s being stubborn and elitist and narcissistic and entirely unfair to Patrick, but he wants to pout and stomp about it anyway. Or maybe he’s just hungry. Who can really tell?</p><p>“David,” Patrick says, and the sound of it should be angrier, David thinks. Patrick should be upset with him because he’s being a brat, and yet his name is soft on Patrick’s tongue—gentle and warm like slipping into the sun-kissed pool at the family villa in Punta Cana. “We can do something else, if you want.” His face is open and honest; he really means it, and <em>god,</em> David wishes this were something more than this tentative friendship and he could give in to the overwhelming urge to kiss him stupid. “I thought it would be fun, but we can do literally anything else if you don’t like this.”</p><p>And even though nearly every single part of him wants to leave this tacky, trite, terrible excuse for an art studio far behind, wants to maybe even burn it straight to the ground so no one else would ever have to suffer looking at it again, there’s one tiny, little, itty bitty, infinitesimally sentimental piece of him that knows Patrick went out of his way to find something he thought David would enjoy, and no matter how much all the other parts of him yell and kick and scream, that one piece grips tight and holds fast against the onslaught and somehow emerges victorious.</p><p>“It’s fine,” David hears himself say, and he nearly laughs at the way Patrick’s eyes go wide with surprise, a match for the magnitude of his own shock at himself. “I mean, there’s wine, right?” He waits for Patrick to nod. “How bad can it be?”</p><p>There’s a delicate happiness playing on Patrick’s lips, and David’s heart beats thunderous and wild because he’s the one who put it there. “I wouldn’t ask that, if I were you,” Patrick says, and then they’re both chuckling and getting out of the car, and even though David is terrified of the experience he’s about to walk into, it’s a little easier knowing that Patrick is at his side.</p><p>The inside of the studio is exactly as he had expected: horrifyingly kitschy, far too on-the-nose and not in an ironic sort of way, and absolutely filled to the brim with women his mother’s age. (Her actual age, not the generous one listed on her Wikipedia page.) But he makes a beeline straight for the wine and the cheese tray and the little bowl of pretzels, and after throwing back a glass or maybe two or three, the prospect of spending an evening here seems a little less of a tragedy.</p><p>Besides, Patrick keeps catching his eye from across the room as he finds them a pair of seats together and follows the instructor lady’s directions, gathering brushes and water and plates for them to use, and David thinks that perhaps there are worse ways to spend an evening than this. </p><p>By the time he sits down at Patrick’s side, having carefully removed his sweater after all and tucked it onto a corner shelf that he’d first lined with a triple layer of paper towels for its protection, he’s pleasantly buzzed and pleasantly full of cheese and pleasantly comfortable scooting just a little closer to Patrick than is probably warranted, but Patrick just hands him a brush and a plate covered in little blobs of cheap acrylic paint, laughing loud and full and clear when David stops contemplating it long enough to ask, “Do you think Stuart Semple has ever done one of these wine and painting nights?”</p><p>“I don’t even know who that is.”</p><p>“Of course you don’t,” David replies, smiling so hard that he kind of wants to swallow his own tongue just to stop himself. He dips a wide brush into the blob of powder blue paint and follows the instructor’s directions, washing it across the top of his canvas to begin creating a clear, sunny sky.</p><p>Sitting this close to Patrick, he can smell the fresh, clean scent of his cologne, and it makes it hard to concentrate on the beach scene he’s supposed to be recreating. After several more trips up for snacks and far too much time spent surreptitiously staring at the spot behind Patrick’s ear where his hair is just starting to curl, David looks around and realizes he’s definitely the farthest behind on his painting. He’s also doing the worst job of anyone here, which is hilarious considering he owns a fucking art gallery and is probably the only person in this room who has ever actually seen a beach like the one they’re all supposed to be creating.</p><p>Patrick is already finishing painting a palm tree in the foreground, the lines of it solid and straight against the softer, sloping shoreline, and while it isn’t perhaps the greatest work of art David’s ever seen, it’s far more deftly done than he would have expected from anyone who plays baseball for a living. There’s a surprising artistry in the finer details and in the use of highlights and shadows, and when Patrick catches him looking, David gives him an encouraging smile. Inexplicably, he goes pink at that, and if they were using watercolors instead of acrylics, David would try to capture the way the color washes so delicately across the apples of his cheeks and down the length of his throat. He settles for committing it to memory instead and turns back to his canvas as Patrick mumbles something about getting them another cup of water. </p><p>His hand brushes against the small of David’s back as he squeezes by, and David jumps at the contact, a big white splotch popping up on his canvas where he was just starting to dab foamy highlights onto the crest of his wave. Well, it’s supposed to be a wave at least—in reality it looks more like someone just painted the letter C on top of a viridian blob, and now it’s wearing a jaunty white hat. David’s laughing so hard at it by the time that Patrick returns, that Patrick looks at him like he’s gone a bit mad, which, when David thinks about how he’s ended up in this exact moment, maybe he has.</p><p>“Everything okay?” Patrick asks cautiously.</p><p>“I’m so bad at this,” David gasps between his peals of laughter. Patrick looks at his painting like he’s trying to find something nice to say about it and then shakes his head, grinning.</p><p>“You really are. This is truly terrible.” </p><p>David lets his mouth drop comically open, feigning offense. “How dare you. This is a pseudorealist post-contemporary masterpiece.”</p><p>“Oh, of course,” Patrick says, turning back to his own painting where the waves actually look like waves and not some Cubist reinterpretation of them. “I bet you could get a whole five dollars for it at your gallery.”</p><p>“Hey now, I’ll have you know that I am <em>very</em> good at what I do.” David doesn’t mean for that to come out the way it does, like some kind of innuendo, so he just rushes on before he can be embarrassed about it. “If I put this in my gallery, I could find someone who would pay thousands for it.”</p><p>“I don’t doubt it,” Patrick returns. “But it’s still a shit painting.”</p><p>David’s grinning so hard it hurts. He wonders briefly when it last was that these muscles got this kind of workout. He wonders how Patrick Brewer of all people is the one who has been able to make him smile this much. </p><p>“It’s still a shit painting,” he concurs and gets up for another glass of wine.</p><p>The woman who’s been seated across from him at the table is already there pulling the cork out of a fresh bottle of cab sav, and she smirks at David as he approaches. “How long?” she asks, and David wonders if he’s actually drunk enough that he missed part of this conversation. He eyes his cup suspiciously—maybe he doesn’t need more wine after all.</p><p>She keeps looking at him like she’s expecting an answer though, and he has to ask for clarification. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“How long have you two been together?”</p><p>“Oh!” David throws a panicked little glance in Patrick’s direction, but thankfully he’s absorbed now in painting highlights into the big fluffy clouds floating over his beach. “Um, we’re not— I mean, I don’t— We— We aren’t together,” he finally manages to say. </p><p>“Oh, hun.” She pats his arm, and David grinds his teeth—he fucking hates when people call him that. “You don’t have anything to hide here.”</p><p>Nope, he does need that wine after all. He takes the bottle and pours himself another glass, downing a big gulp before he replies, trying to wash the bitterness back down his throat. “No,” he corrects. “We’re just friends.”</p><p>She frowns at him suspiciously, like she thinks he’s still just trying to be secretive, like David hasn’t been very visibly out since he got caught making out with both Marina Gutierrez and Joey Tremblay behind the poolhouse at his fifteenth birthday party. “Well, if that’s true,” she says, and he rolls his eyes because of course she would think she knows better than he does, “you should do something about it.”</p><p>He looks at Patrick, at the line of his nose and the little wrinkle between his eyes as he focuses on his precise brush strokes. At the angle of his jaw and that tempting vee of skin peeking out of the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. David wants him. Wants him as much more than a friend and so, so much more than a fuck. He wants him so badly his throat goes dry just looking. </p><p>But Patrick doesn’t seem to want that, and for now David would rather keep this—the laughter and the teasing and even the hollow pit of want in his belly—rather than risk reaching for more and lose it all.</p><p>The woman looks from him to Patrick and back again. “I guess it’s not really my place,” she says, too little too late, “but the last time someone made me laugh that hard, I married her.” With one last sympathetic look, she heads back to the table, giving a fond squeeze to the neck of the woman beside her as she settles in front of her painting again. David refills his glass once more, grabs another plate of cheese, and drops back into his seat next to Patrick, careful not to touch him at all.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Another week, another tangentially-related fun fact: MLB umpires have just as long and tough a road to the majors as players do. There are two professional umpire training schools (both in Florida), and umpire wannabes have to attend a 4 to 5 week course at one of them to start the process. Only the top graduates are invited to then participate in the MiLB Advanced Course, after which they’re evaluated and, if they’re good enough, recommended to begin a career in either a Rookie or Class A Short Season league. Typically, only about 10% of the students who attend training school are offered a job. From there, they work their way up through the various levels of the minors just like the players do, and on average it takes 7 to 8 years for a top prospect to be offered a job in the majors, once one of the 76 current MLB umpires leaves.</p><p> </p><p>Shoutout to my longtime beta and bud, Darcy, for giving me the wine and paint night idea in the airport in Portland, Maine, where I then proceeded to immediately sit down and hand write the full, ten-page first draft of that scene.</p><p> </p><p>Patrick’s phone number here is an homage to another little baseball-related fic that I love, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24273979">Catching Feelings</a>, though I changed up the area code.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. line drive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Monday morning arrives, overcast and drizzly, and David realizes he’s lost his damn mind.</p><p>Stevie had texted late last night to ask what time he would be in to deal with Brenda’s delivery because, as far as she had known, he was supposed to be back in the city already. The plan had been to drive back yesterday afternoon, but instead he’d stayed for the game last night, as well as the post-game trip for hot dogs. And so now he’s flying down the highway, armed with the biggest, shittiest gas station coffee he’s ever tasted, weaving smoothly in and out of traffic as rain splatters against the windshield.</p><p>Honestly, the morning dash back into the city isn’t all that unusual; it’s far from the first time he’s woken up somewhere other than where he should have been. What is unusual, however—and the cause of David’s current questioning of his own sanity—is that Patrick is tucked into the passenger seat, soft and slack as his head rests against the window, washed in sleepy grey light and snoring slightly.</p><p>David had mentioned over dinner that he needed to work at the store today, and Patrick had mentioned that he has the day off, and somehow one thing had led to another and now here’s Patrick sleeping in the seat beside him as they slip ever closer to the city.</p><p>It’s a terrible idea for so many reasons, not the least of which is that Patrick needs to be back in Schitt’s Creek tonight. There’s a game in Syracuse tomorrow, and he has to be on the bus with the rest of the team when it leaves bright and early in the morning for the three-hour drive.</p><p>Patrick stirs as they make their way across the GW, blinking into the dreary mid-morning light and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. David nods toward the cupholder.</p><p>“What’s this?” Patrick asks.</p><p>“Coffee. I, uh, wasn’t sure what you liked, so there’s cream and sugar in the console there if you need it.” It’s certainly not as hot now as it was, but it should still be drinkable, or at least as drinkable as gas station coffee can ever be.</p><p>Patrick takes a small sip and grimaces.</p><p>“You don’t have to drink it,” David tells him, hiding his frown between his teeth.</p><p>“It’s fine,” he replies, still wincing as he takes another sip. “I just haven’t had coffee in a while.”</p><p>“What? How do you survive all those early morning bus rides?”</p><p>His third sip goes down with only a twitch of an eyelid, and he shrugs. “Texting you.”</p><p>It’s patently untrue. Patrick’s had his number for less than a week, and since that first morning, all his texts have come after 10 AM. Still, the response floods David with warmth, the tide of it rising higher still when he catches Patrick pressing a little smile into the rim of his cup. The relentless urge to kiss him rises with it, however, and David trains his gaze firmly on the traffic ahead of them, focusing on the hot crimson flash of tail lights rather than the delicate pink blush of Patrick’s mouth.</p><p>The rain drums harder against the windshield.</p><p>It’s going to be a long day.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The lingering scent of varnish greets them when David opens the door to find Stevie camped out on the newly refinished counter. She glances up from her phone just long enough to register his appearance before settling back into casual disinterest. “You’re late. And wet. And you didn’t even bring me coffee.”</p><p>“Isn’t that supposed to work the other way around?” David asks, fluffing a hand through his rain-spotted hair. “You are my PA after all.”</p><p>“And what a terrible decision that was.”</p><p>“I regret it more every day.” Patrick closes the door behind them, and Stevie gives David a high-browed look of disbelief. “Um, Stevie, this is Patrick. Patrick, Stevie.”</p><p>“Hi,” Patrick says, approaching with a hand stuck out for her to shake. She doesn’t. “I’ve, uh, I’ve heard a lot about you.” When she still doesn’t move, he tucks his hand back into his pocket, shoving it deep inside the fabric as if he could wipe off the awkwardness of the encounter.</p><p>“Huh, that’s funny, I’ve heard hardly anything about you.” She pins David with a sharp, keen look that he decides it’s probably best to ignore.</p><p>“Patrick had the day off, so he offered to come help us out.”</p><p>“Did he now?” Her gaze pivots back to Patrick, looking him up and down. “That’s very generous of you. Just giving up your day off. To help. For no particular reason.”</p><p>“Well, you know, just… being nice.” It almost sounds like a question, and when Stevie’s eyes only narrow in response, like a predator sensing the weakness of prey, Patrick looks to David, a little helpless. David can’t really blame him. She can be hard to go toe-to-toe with on her best days, and today she’s clearly in some kind of mood. It’s probably best if he runs interference.</p><p>“It is nice,” he interjects. “Thank you, Patrick. And it would be even nicer if we could all just get to work.” He aims the last part at Stevie who sighs heavily but at last unfolds herself from the counter.</p><p>The boxes Brenda already delivered this morning sit in neat stacks beside the door, and they spend what’s left of the morning sorting through them, the rain against the front windows beating out a steady soundtrack for their work. The custom storage pieces Jake is building aren’t ready yet, but there are a few tables David found at a consignment shop in Chelsea, and soon enough every inch of them is covered in bottles and jars and boxes as they take inventory and carefully apply Rose Apothecary labels to each one. It’s a job he could delegate to the employees at the Brooklyn store or to the new ones that will work here once they hire them, but he enjoys the meditative repetition of it. Stevie has told him before that it’s because he’s a control freak, but doing it himself just feels like getting things started on the right foot.</p><p>Patrick asks questions about the products and pricing and how David finds his suppliers; Stevie works mostly in silence, and David catches her staring at the two of them every now and then, a sour pinch on her lips. He wants to ask what her deal is, but with Patrick here, there’s not really any privacy to have that conversation right now. After the third or fourth time he catches her at it, he settles for raising his eyebrows at her in question, but she just rolls her eyes and turns away again.</p><p>When lunchtime finally rolls around, David somehow convinces her to pick them up some sandwiches from the deli two blocks down. The air feels less heavy the moment she’s out the door, and it bothers him that he can breathe easier with her gone. It’s never been like this before, and he knows that the reason is almost certainly the man standing beside him, diligently applying labels to bottles of body milk. But why?</p><p>“I, uh, don’t get the impression that Stevie likes me very much,” Patrick says, almost as if he’d plucked the thought straight from David’s head.</p><p>“Stevie doesn’t like anyone very much at first,” he replies. It’s true, but he’d really thought she and Patrick would get along. They have the same teasing sense of humor—hers far drier, but their goals the same—and he’d half-expected them to gang up on him as soon as they’d walked through the door this morning. He definitely couldn’t have anticipated all the awkward silence and churlish looks they’ve been subjected to instead. “She’ll warm up to you eventually,” he says, though that might be wishful thinking. She can be ruthlessly stubborn when she sets her mind to it, like the year in high school when she’d decided to embrace a more goth aesthetic despite David’s repeated and vociferous objections.</p><p>If she never comes around to liking Patrick though, that might be a problem; he can’t spend years—</p><p>David reels at his own thoughts. <em>Where had that idea come from?</em> He hardly knows Patrick; they’re barely friends. Why would he be thinking about where they might be years from now? He packs that entire line of thinking away, cramming it into a tiny box and hoping that if he pushes it into the farthest, darkest, dustiest corner of his mind, he won’t have to examine it for a very long time.</p><p>In an attempt to distract himself, he gestures at the steadily growing army of body milks amassing in front of Patrick. “You’re not too bad at all this.”</p><p>“You mean counting? I’m glad my public school skills still hold up. I was worried.” Patrick grins at him, broad and goofy in that way he only seems to do when he’s teasing David. It’s quickly becoming one of David’s favorite sights on the entire planet. “I wonder if I still know the alphabet, too.”</p><p>“Well, there are two letters I hope you remember. One’s an F, and the other’s a—”</p><p>“You know, I don’t think that’s how bosses are supposed to talk to their employees. I should call HR.” He tries to plaster a stern look on his face, but that grin underneath keeps slipping through. “Oh, hey, that’s two more letters I know!”</p><p>The jar of face cream clacks sternly against the table as David puts it down. “How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not your boss?”</p><p>“But you are though. Technically.”</p><p>“I’m really not.”</p><p>Patrick holds a bottle up and shakes it pointedly. “I’m pretty sure that I’m working for you right now, too.”</p><p>“Oh, this is definitely more of a volunteer situation.”</p><p>“So this isn’t my new career? Well, that’s disappointing.” His bottom lip sticks out enticingly as he puts on an oversized pout. “I was really hoping to put my business degree to use.”</p><p>David tucks that bit of trivia away for later discussion and instead asks the question he’s been wondering about since they met.</p><p>“Why baseball?” </p><p>Most of the players David’s known have been cocky and self-assured, and sure, Patrick is those things, too, but in a way that says he knows who he is more than he knows that this is what he was gifted to the world to do, and David needs to know how it is that Patrick fits in amongst the arrogant and the assholes that he’s long associated with the game.</p><p>He assumed he’d get a quick answer; isn’t this the kind of thing people like Patrick get asked all the time? But instead there’s a long, quiet minute where Patrick seems to be giving the question hard thought, and then he shrugs as if the answer is easy after all. </p><p>“Because baseball is hope.”</p><p>Whatever David might have expected as an answer, it isn’t that, and he tilts his head in curiosity to encourage Patrick on.</p><p>“When you’re a kid,” he explains, “you dream about being a star. Home runs. Cheering crowds. You have hope that you can get there because you’re told, again and again, that everyone from Babe Ruth to Rogers Clemens started right where you are, playing catch in the backyard, pick-up games in empty fields.” There’s a determination in his tone that David can trace back, following it through the years to imagine that ferocity in him as a kid, full-cheeked and bright-eyed, ready to take on the world. “You’re told that if you practice enough, if you work hard, maybe someday you can get there, too. So that’s what you do. You hope, and you work, and you push yourself to be the best.”</p><p>David tries to remember if he’s ever had that kind of drive. Hopes and dreams had always been in great supply, but he certainly can’t recall actively working toward any of them. There’s the gallery, of course, and now both stores, but so much of that has been bought rather than earned. It’s been easy enough that he can hardly even call it work. He wonders briefly if his ten-year-old self would be happy with who he is today, the way he imagines Patrick’s younger self would be.</p><p>“So you did all this for little Patrick and his big dreams then.”</p><p>The laugh that bursts out of Patrick’s mouth is tinged with something that sounds an awful lot like bitterness. “No,” he says. “I mean, yes, that’s where it started, but… Well, there’s a lot people don’t tell you when you’re seven.” His shoulders roll stiffly as he shakes his head at the floor. “You’re on the road in sweltering buses and filthy clubhouses seventy games a year, not that home is much better. You barely make enough to keep yourself alive, eat whatever’s cheap so your per diem can help pay the rent.” The look he gives David is indecipherable, something guarded and cautious in a way David hasn’t seen from him before. “It’s not really a happy life, but…”</p><p>The thought lingers there, just out of reach, and David shifts on his feet, bracing his weight more heavily on his hip against the edge of the table. “But?”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes bounce back and forth between his own. Searching for something maybe. Maybe just contemplating how much he wants to say. </p><p>“You find things that make it worth it,” he says eventually. “Places. People.” That look grows just a degree or two warmer, and David feels it on his face like the rising sun. “And a chance to start over—that’s the real hope. Every inning starts with no outs. Every at-bat, no strikes. Every pitch and catch and swing is a fresh start. You learn eventually that there’s no such thing as being ‘the best,’ but with every play you can be better. You can be… someone new.”</p><p>That, David thinks, is something he can understand. It’s how he dresses himself every morning, opening his closet to decide who it is that he wants to be today.</p><p>He wonders who it is that Patrick is trying to become.</p><p>A foot bumps against the side of David’s hightop. “What about you?”</p><p>“What about me?”</p><p>“Is this what you’ve always wanted to do?”</p><p>“Yeah,” David says without having to think about it. “Pretty much. I mean, I didn’t know for sure it would be an art gallery or retail or whatever, but yeah. I’ve always had good taste, and—” Patrick laughs. “What?”</p><p>“Nothing just…” If David had to find a word to describe the way that Patrick looks at him then, all curved mouth and sparkling, crinkled eyes, it would be charmed. But no one on earth has ever been actually charmed by David Rose, so it’s more than likely he’s misinterpreting that look entirely, just projecting his own hopes and wants onto Patrick’s expressive face.</p><p>“What?” he asks again so that Patrick will stop looking at him like that.</p><p>“Most people aren’t so honest about what they think of themselves.”</p><p>“Well, I do have good taste. Why would I want to lie about that? It’s not my fault if other people don’t.”</p><p>“Precisely.” Patrick blushes, which is even more baffling than anything else about this conversation. “It’s just refreshing, I guess. For the record though, you do have good taste.”</p><p>“I know,” David agrees just because he knows it will make Patrick laugh again. </p><p>Really, what he means is thank you.</p><p>Before he can say it though, the front door opens, and Stevie spills in on a grumble, shaking out her umbrella and piling a crumpled bag of sandwiches on the table beside them. “Next time, you’re going to play fetch,” she tells David. “The guy at the register hit on me again, and if you make me go back there, I’m gonna break his fucking fingers.”</p><p>He dives into the bag and pulls out his sandwich, hoping she remembered to order it without lettuce this time. “I refuse to post bail for you again.”</p><p>“Okay, that was one time,” she replies, “and he deserved it.”</p><p>“Stevie, you punched him in the mouth for trying to sing to you.”</p><p>“You would have done the same thing if he’d been practically screaming ‘Wonderwall’ at you.”</p><p>“God. Can you imagine?” A horrific shiver runs down David’s spine. “No one is allowed to sing anything at me.”</p><p>“Not even Mariah?” Patrick asks, unwrapping his turkey club, and David freezes mid-bite, shocked that Patrick remembered his intense, lifelong love of Mariah Carey. He’s pretty sure it’s only come up in conversation once, briefly, but apparently Patrick had deemed it a fact important enough to hold on to. He can feel his expression melting into something softer, something gooey and sticky and just shy of gross, but he’s powerless to stop it.</p><p>Beside him, Stevie gags, snapping him out of it, and he shoots her a dirty look which she knowingly ignores.</p><p>“So. Patrick,” she says instead, drawing his name out like it’s an accusation. “You play baseball.”</p><p>“Uh, yeah.”</p><p>“For Schitt’s Creek.”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>“And this is your first season with the Bears.”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes flick to David and then back to Stevie again. “It is.”</p><p>“Do we really have to talk about baseball?” David interjects, but Stevie continues ignoring him, throwing questions at Patrick with feigned nonchalance as she picks at the cheese hanging off the edge of her sandwich.</p><p>“And how did you end up in Schitt’s Creek exactly?”</p><p>Patrick stiffens beneath her laser focus. “I was a free agent. The Bears offered me a deal. I took it.”</p><p>“Were they the only team interested? Or did you choose them over somewhere else?”</p><p>There’s something anxious in Patrick’s wide eyes, and David doesn’t like seeing it there.</p><p>“Stevie, can you, um, can you help me with something? In the back. Just real quick,” he cuts in, putting down his lunch. When she doesn’t budge, he shifts his gaze deliberately toward the storage room, demanding that she follow, but it’s only when he adds a terse, “Please,” that she finally drops her sandwich on the counter and disappears through the doorway. </p><p>David shoots Patrick an apologetic look before following her, pulling the pocket door closed behind them. The thin wood gives them the illusion of privacy, though he can’t pretend it will do much more than dim the sound of their conversation. Still, he feels better knowing Patrick can’t watch this unfold, and he rounds on Stevie, asking in a furious whisper, “What is your problem? Why are you interrogating him?”</p><p>“What? I’m just asking him questions. Is that not allowed?”</p><p>“Not when you’re being all… this.”</p><p>She glares at him, and he glares back, crossing his arms as if it will strengthen his point. But she doesn’t so much as blink, and as usual, he’s the first to give. Damn her.</p><p>“Seriously, Stevie,” he says, softer now. “What’s up with you?”</p><p>“Nothing’s up with me. I’m trying to find out what’s up with him.”</p><p>“What? Why?”</p><p>“David, how many baseball players have you fucked?” Her voice rises, and David winces, praying that somehow Patrick didn’t hear that. “And how many have you kept around after that?”</p><p>“Okay, first of all, I haven’t fucked Patrick—”</p><p>“Exactly!”</p><p>“No, not ‘Exactly!’ We’re friends. That’s all.”</p><p>“I’m just saying that the last time you did anything with a baseball player other than fuck them, we both know how it turned out. So I just think you should be careful.”</p><p>His brows all but disappear into his hairline. “I’m sorry. Are you worried about me?”</p><p>“God no.” But one corner of her lips twitches up a fraction of an inch before she can force it back into place. “I just don’t want to have to deal with picking up the pieces when he breaks your heart. You get terribly clingy.”</p><p>“Clingy?!”</p><p>“Maybe more like needy.”</p><p>He harrumphs. That’s patently untrue. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that because there will be no broken hearts. We’re just friends.”</p><p>“Mhmm. Tell that to your face every time he opens his mouth.”</p><p>“I’m not— He’s just—” He’s as transparent as a sheet of glass, and he knows from the skeptical tilt of her mouth that she has no trouble seeing right through him. It softens his denials, just a little. “He’s probably straight anyway.”</p><p>Stevie snorts, an ugly, snotty sound.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You’re an idiot. And it doesn’t seem like it should matter whether he’s straight or not if you’re, ‘just friends.’”</p><p>“Stevie,” he pleads because that’s as far as he’s willing to go down that path. “Please just ease up on him. For me?”</p><p>The steel in her eyes softens just a little. “You really want this to work.” It isn’t a question, but he gives her a tiny nod anyway. “Fine. I’ll drop the interrogation. But if he turns out to be a monster,”—she points a threatening finger at his face and he slaps it away—”I’m gonna say ‘I told you so.’ Loudly. Like, with a skywriter.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes but agrees. “Deal. Just… give him a chance.”</p><p>She offers him a half salute as she pushes past him for the door. “You got it, boss.” </p><p>“Don’t call me that!” he calls after her. </p><p>God, he’s really going to regret this, isn’t he?</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>For once in her life, Stevie actually listens, and the rest of the afternoon passes in relative harmony. She and Patrick even gang up on him in a discussion of the best movie genres, a development that David would love if he weren’t on the receiving end of their collective teasing.</p><p>“Honestly,” Patrick says, “I’m shocked you don’t like sports movies. They’re just romcoms for when you don’t want all the making out.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>Stevie all but shakes herself off the table in her quickness to nod in agreement. David’s pretty sure she’s never seen a sports film in her life, but she’ll take whatever side he isn’t on just to be a troll.</p><p>“They have the same basic plots, give you the same feelings. They’re all about letting your heart guide you. Learning you’re stronger than you thought. Overcoming the odds,” Patrick insists, gesturing pointedly with a half-empty sheet of labels. “Consider this. Life is going along just fine, maybe a little boring, but that’s okay. Then someone comes along and draws you into an exciting new world, and everything is fantastic. For a while. Then reality comes crashing down, and you walk away from it all. But in the end you come back, make a last stand, really put your heart on the line.” He raises his faint brows at David. “Now tell me, did I just describe the plot of <i>A League of Their Own</i> or <i>Pretty Woman</i>?” </p><p>“I—”</p><p>“Both, David. The answer is both.”</p><p>He tries to argue because <em>obviously</em> Patrick is wrong, and if he just takes a second he’ll be able to explain why. But Stevie is cackling with glee, and Patrick is giving him a look so smug David isn’t sure if he wants to kiss him or slap him, and so the best he can manage under the circumstances is, “<i>A League of Their Own</i> doesn’t count! It’s got Tom Hanks in it—the undisputed king of ‘90s romcoms—so it’s basically already halfway there.”</p><p>“Is it though?” Stevie asks, and he can’t possibly scowl at her hard enough.</p><p>“I pay you. Shouldn’t you be on <em>my</em> side?”</p><p>“You pay him, too, which I think puts the two of us on the same side actually.” She turns to Patrick, grinning shrewdly. “Maybe we should form a union. The United Employees of David Rose Who Think Romcoms Aren’t Actually That Great.”</p><p>“We’re still workshopping the name,” Patrick tells him before shaking her hand in exaggerated agreement.</p><p>“Okay, I think we’re done here. Stevie, get out. Patrick, I guess I’ll drive you back to Schitt’s Creek, but I reserve the right to abandon you on the side of the highway if necessary.”</p><p>David isn’t really ready for the day to be over just yet, but Patrick does have to be on the team bus in the morning, and, more importantly, he has to break up whatever is happening here. When he’d asked Stevie to ease up, this isn’t quite what he’d meant.</p><p>Stevie never needs to be told twice to knock off of work though, so she all but runs to the back to collect her things. Patrick, however, doesn’t budge.</p><p>“So you concede that I’m right then?”</p><p>“What? No, I just—”</p><p>“No,” Patrick insists. “If you forfeit in the middle of the game, that means I win.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Stevie joins in, pulling the strap of her bag over her head as she comes back through the doorway and flipping off the light in the storage room. “That’s how sports work.”</p><p>“Well this isn’t a sport,” David tells her. <em>It isn’t a romcom either,</em> he thinks, turning to Patrick again. “And we need to get you home, so…”</p><p>“Or...” The light glints in Patrick’s eyes the same way it had the night they met, when he’d tried to entice David out onto the field with a challenge. “We could prove it.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You pick a movie. I’ll pick a movie. And we’ll see if I’m right.”</p><p>“Now?”</p><p>“Why not?” Patrick shrugs. “There’s time.”</p><p>Technically, he’s right. They don’t need to head back to Schitt’s Creek just yet. But four hours alone in his apartment with Patrick is far too much time to let himself do something stupid and reckless.</p><p>“Fine,” he concedes. “But Stevie has to come, too.”</p><p>“What? Why?” she sputters.</p><p>“Tiebreaking vote. Otherwise, it’s just going to be a stalemate. But I trust that you can be impartial and make a fair decision.”</p><p>She barks out a sarcastic laugh. “Since when?”</p><p>“Since now.” </p><p>Which is how they end up back at David’s apartment, pizza boxes and wine glasses scattered across the coffee table. Beyond his floor-to-ceiling windows, the bruised orange sunset peeks out from beneath the clouds to glitter off every surface from here to Midtown, burnishing the three of them like copper as they sink down into the plush depths of his leather sofa. </p><p>The opening notes of Elvis Costello’s “She” play over a montage of Julia Roberts looking glamorous and gorgeous as always, and David releases a little of his ever-present anxiety on a happy sigh.</p><p>This is his all-time favorite romcom, though he tries not to think too hard about why he particularly loves a film where the rich protagonist with the all-too-recognizable name just wants to be loved for who she really is. He tries, too, not to wonder where his own William Thacker is and whether or not he might be found in the man leaning against the opposite arm of the couch, looking far more at home here than David had expected. Instead, he presses further into Stevie’s side where she sits between them and lets Hugh Grant’s voice and the quaint, friendly cosiness of Notting Hill wash over him.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“I really don’t get the Hugh Grant thing,” Stevie proclaims, as soon as Will steps foot into The Travel Book Co.</p><p>“Yes, well,” David says, “you clearly have terrible taste in men.”</p><p>“True. I mean, you and I did…” Her fingers come together in some inelegant gesture, but David’s gaze snaps to Patrick who is sitting stock still, his eyes locked on the screen. </p><p>“Okay, I don’t count, obviously. That was barely anything.”</p><p>The laugh she lets out is more of a snort. “Well, I have had bigger—”</p><p>“Drown in the Hudson please.”</p><p>A mischievous smirk slides across her mouth, and as she turns purposefully to the other end of the sofa, David’s already cursing the day she was born. “What do you think, Patrick?”</p><p>“Uh, about…?”</p><p>“Hugh Grant, obviously.”</p><p>“Oh, um, it’s the eyes I think. And the hair.” He gives her a half-shrug before refocusing on the tv. “It’s nice.”</p><p>It takes several seconds for David to process that tidbit and all the possibilities it could entail, though he doesn’t allow himself to run so far as to turn it into any kind of actual hope. Stevie turns back to him waggling her brows, and he elbows her square in the side.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“I’m pretty sure Spike is based on my college roommate,” Patrick says, and Stevie huffs out a laugh.</p><p>“I was gonna say the same thing.”</p><p>David balks. “You lived with me in college!”</p><p>“Yeah, and which one of us was more likely to wander around in goggles and neoprene?”</p><p>He can feel the sofa shaking as Patrick tries to rein in his laughter. “For the last time, those were Prada, and they weren’t goggles—they were shield sunglasses, which were very on trend.” </p><p>“I think I’d like to see that,” Patrick chimes in.</p><p>“Oh, I’ve got pictures,” Stevie tells him, and he grins widely in response. “I’ll text them to you later.”</p><p>David flips them both off. “I shouldn’t have introduced you two.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Are we really supposed to believe she’d choose to stay with Alec Baldwin over Hugh Grant?” Patrick asks as he sits up to grab another slice of pizza.</p><p>“Yeah,” David agrees, “he’s just not very—”</p><p>“Attractive.”</p><p>“—nice.” He whips around to look at Patrick before the word is fully out of his own mouth, but aside from the flush of red burning at the tips of his ears, there’s no indication that Patrick thinks he’s said anything unexpected.</p><p>Stevie, on the other hand, is positively gleeful, her eyes bouncing back and forth between them like she’s been gifted front row seats to the world’s most salacious tennis match. “What? You’re not into the whole tall hair look?”</p><p>“Um, no, I, uh—” He scratches at his neck but doesn’t look away from the tv. “I think it works on some people.”</p><p>He can’t possibly mean it the way David wants him to, but his heart pounds harder against his ribs just in case.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Whatever you do,” Stevie says, “do <em>not</em> get David started on Chagall.”</p><p>“Is it an even bigger rant than his one about Chicago deep dish?”</p><p>“It’s a pie!” David counters, throwing up his hands. “At least call it what it is! Don’t desecrate the holy name of pizza with that—”</p><p>“Oh, god, why would you get him going?” Stevie asks Patrick. “You deal with this. I’m hiding in the spare bedroom until he wears himself out, and I’m taking this”—she plucks a half-empty bottle of red from the table—”with me.”</p><p>When she stands, David finds himself falling into the space she’s just vacated. Patrick catches him with a strong, steady hand against his shoulder, and he mumbles out a <em>thanks</em>, tilting himself to rest against the arm of the sofa instead.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Are your feet cold?”</p><p>“I’m fine,” David replies, but the way he’s rubbing them against each other doesn’t help his argument.</p><p>Patrick pulls the blanket off of the back of his side of the couch and throws it across David’s feet, giving him a brief flash of a smile. “There,” he says, patting the rise of David’s ankle through the fabric.</p><p>The seconds tick past, and his hand doesn’t move, fingers still curved around the joint. David closes his eyes and counts to thirty, to sixty, to a hundred-and-eighty, but the warm weight of Patrick’s hand doesn’t disappear.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry, but that ending is ridiculous,” Patrick complains, and David gasps with every ounce of drama his mother gifted him.</p><p>“You take that back. It’s a <em>classic.</em>”</p><p>“Maybe, but it’s still ridiculous.” Patrick ducks deftly out of the way of the throw pillow that David sends sailing at his head, the last of his wine sloshing in the glass as he slides it back onto the coffee table. “I mean, Anna wouldn’t talk to him for ages over a simple misunderstanding but suddenly shows up again and just expects him to take her back? And he does?” He gives David an exaggerated shake of his head. “Also, no one’s just going to let him walk into a press conference like that anyway, much less ask a question. It would never happen.”</p><p>“Just because you don’t believe in the power of true love—”</p><p>“I didn’t say that. It’s just that…” He trails off, suddenly shy, fingers plucking at the sleeve of his henley.</p><p>“It’s just what?”</p><p>His mouth contorts itself through the start of several responses before it settles back into a firm line that lists sadly to one side. “In my experience, that isn’t at all what love’s like.”</p><p><em>What is it like then?</em> David wants to ask. It’s not like he would know. But Patrick still isn’t meeting his eye, and there’s something so protective about the stiff way he’s holding himself, like he knows just how brittle the bones are that protect his beating heart. So David doesn’t press the issue further. Instead, he says, “Then maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”</p><p>That brings Patrick’s gaze to his, finally, and there’s something there, some pinprick of light in all that umber dark that makes David’s heart beat in double time. But Stevie is back before he can explore it any further.</p><p>“Jake texted me, so I’m out.”</p><p>“Wait, you’re going to just abandon us in our time of need for a booty call?”</p><p>“Absolutely.” She grabs her bag and slips an unopened bottle of wine into it. “But I’m sure you two can handle yourselves. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”</p><p>“That isn’t much,” David grouses, and she gives him a wink.</p><p>“Precisely. It was nice to finally meet you, Patrick.”</p><p>“You, too, Stevie.”</p><p>And then she’s gone, leaving the two of them alone in the blue glow of the tv screen.</p><p>“My pick?” Patrick asks, and as much as David knows he should call the night to an end right now, he nods and holds out the remote, imagining that Patrick’s fingers linger against his palm before plucking it from his grasp.</p><p> </p><p>* </p><p> </p><p>“Wait,” David says as the intro of <i>Miracle</i> plays on the screen. “This isn’t about baseball?”</p><p>“I am allowed to like more than one sport, David.”</p><p>“Fair enough. And do all sports movies start with a history montage like this?”</p><p>Patrick grins at him, broad and smug. “You mean like how <i>Notting Hill</i> starts with an Anna Scott montage?”</p><p>David digs his toes into Patrick’s thigh. “Shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Is that the guy from <i>Bring It On</i>?” David sits up at the realization, ignoring the way it brings him hip to hip with Patrick who has migrated closer to the center of the couch, a warm, solid weight against his side.</p><p>“No idea. I’ve never seen it.”</p><p>“Okay, well, we’re going to have to correct that.”</p><p>Patrick shoots him a quick smile before turning back to the hockey auditions happening on screen. “Guess we’ll have to have another movie night then.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Are all the players this cute? Maybe I could get into hockey.”</p><p>“What, baseball players aren’t cute enough for you?”</p><p>Patrick looks straight at him as he says it, his face open and curious though his eyes sparkle in the half-light. It’s a look that invites David to be honest. To take a risk. Just a little.</p><p>“Some of them are.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“I think you need a suit like that.” Patrick is practically melting into his side, and when David gives him a full body shudder, his answering laugh is low and intimate, the feeling of it running molten around David’s sternum and ribs, pooling warm and honeyed in his stomach. “You don’t think plaid’s your color?”</p><p>“Plaid isn’t anyone’s color.”</p><p>“I bet you could pull it off.”</p><p>David gives him one sharp laugh. “Yeah, pull it off straight into the trash.”</p><p>“Oh,” Patrick says, delighted, like he’s been let in on a secret. “So nudity is more your color then.”</p><p>David’s brain goes offline at the mere mention of nudity, taking a few seconds to start itself up again, slowly whirring and clicking back to life. There’s a teasing heat in Patrick’s gaze, and it takes everything in David not to lean over and devour him.</p><p>“I mean, probably not at the Olympics.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Kurt Russell is in the middle of his big speech when it clicks: Patrick is right.</p><p>The details are different, of course, but the beats of it are much the same, hearts pounding out the same song in two different chests, a language shared across borders. Hope. Exhilaration. Trying your best to make it work and coming close, only to suffer a setback. Kurt is certainly no Julia Roberts, but in this moment he might as well be, just a girl standing in front of a boy and asking him to love her.</p><p>David breathes out a little chuckle at the thought and looks over to admit defeat, only to find Patrick fast asleep against his shoulder, face unlined, chest rising and falling steadily. He looks peaceful and impossibly beautiful, and David wants to keep this moment, to preserve it in amber like it’s something real. </p><p>So he does everything he can to keep from waking him, holding himself still during the big game, crying quietly as the clock finally reaches zero and the announcer cries out <em>do you believe in miracles?</em> </p><p>Patrick only snuggles further into him as the credits roll, his hair tickling at the curve of David’s neck. He knows he should wake him, should get them in the car and on their way back to Schitt’s Creek before he can get any more attached to this feeling, knowing he can never really have it. It’s just a fantasy, a sleepy, secret dream, but maybe a few more minutes living in it wouldn’t hurt. So he closes his eyes, lets the real world slip away, and tries to memorize the sound of Patrick’s breath.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Patrick spends some time in this chapter talking about the less-than-glamorous life in the minor leagues, and we’ve seen some hints of that in the past couple chapters as well with the bus rides and Patrick’s house and car. Often when we think of professional sports, we think of big contracts and athletes with multimillion dollar deals, but the overwhelming majority of professional baseball players are in the minor leagues, where conditions are much different. The pay is, frankly, abysmal at most levels.</p><p>Prior to MLB’s recent agreement to raise minor league pay in the 2021 season, lower level MiLB players made a minimum of $290 a week, while higher level players, like Patrick, made a minimum of $502 a week, before taxes, insurance, housing if it’s provided by the team, etc. Considering that these players eat, sleep, and breathe baseball during the season, it typically equates to being paid less than minimum wage for their work, and many then work multiple jobs during the off-season to make ends meet. While MLB players have a union to represent them, MiLB players do not, and often the MLB Players Association has made deals that benefit major league players at the expense of those in the minor leagues. Additionally, in 2018 Congress further solidified the lack of a living wage for MiLB players by passing the Save America’s Pastime Act which exempts minor league players from having to be paid minimum wage or overtime or for spring training at all. Many players live together because they have to, often in poor conditions, and the state of clubhouses, equipment, buses, etc., usually isn’t much better. (Read more <a href="https://bleacherreport.com/articles/2062307-an-inside-look-into-the-harsh-conditions-of-minor-league-baseball">here</a>.)</p><p>Even though Patrick is lucky enough here to be renting a house of his own, shabby though it may be, he’s right to complain about the grind of playing in the minor leagues. It’s a rough life, with a lot of work for very little reward beyond the joy of the game itself and the distant hope of maybe someday, if you’re very good and very, very lucky, getting called up to the majors.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. error</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The sky outside inches from inky midnight to a deep, dusky, pre-dawn purple as a hand flutters against David’s belly, sleepily tugging him closer. A nose nuzzles lazily against his neck, and he lets himself sink into the feeling of being held.</p><p>It takes approximately six seconds for his brain to process the feeling for what it is, for his eyes to pop wide with the realization, and for David to throw himself out of Patrick’s embrace, rolling off the sofa and landing on the floor with an undignified squawk.</p><p>“Mmm, David, wha—” Patrick blinks hazily in the murky half-light, running a hand through his rumpled hair, cozy and cute, before the look in his eyes sharpens to a knife point. “Oh, shit.” He’s off the sofa and shoving his feet into his shoes before David can even clamber up off the floor. “Shit, shit, shit. I have to leave. I have to go.”</p><p>He’s frantic to escape, and the lead weight of his desperation presses down on the guilt rising in David’s belly, hardening it like diamond, solid and sharp. He knew he should have taken Patrick home when they were done at the store yesterday. He knew he should have done it when Stevie left. He knew, and still he’d flirted anyway, skirting the line that they’d drawn between themselves, and then he’d taken advantage of Patrick’s trust, letting him stay sleeping on David’s shoulder instead of waking him to head back to Schitt’s Creek like he was supposed to. At some point in the night, David must have shifted to curl up even closer, and now Patrick is so uncomfortable that he can barely even look him in the eye as he stammers out, “I’ve— I’ve gotta get back.”</p><p>The nauseous thought of two hours in the car with this growing awkwardness between them has David digging his keys out of the glass bowl by the front door and offering them to Patrick instead. </p><p>“David, I can’t take your car.”</p><p>“It’s fine, just—” He swallows down the sob that’s burning its way up his throat. “Just go. You can give the keys to Ray, and I’ll— I’ll have Stevie drive me up to get it or something. I’ll figure it out.”</p><p>“You’re sure?” Patrick asks, though he’s already opening the door.</p><p>“Yeah. Yes. It’s—”</p><p>Patrick rocks forward a little on the balls of his feet, but maybe David imagines that because then he’s throwing himself back instead, out into the hall, eyes wide and startled. “Okay, I gotta…” He jerks his head toward the elevator, and David nods pathetically in agreement. “I’ll be careful with it,” he adds, waving the keys in his hand, and then he’s gone, vanished like smoke slipping right through David’s fingers.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The long, bitter morning drags itself into afternoon, and David’s day does not improve. </p><p>He tries to bury himself in the books at the Brooklyn store, but the numbers won’t balance no matter how many times he tries, and eventually he takes his frustration out on the stack of invoices on the corner of his desk, shoving them right off the edge. The satisfaction of watching them all flutter to the floor is short-lived, of course, because now he just has to pick them all up again.</p><p>Like all of his problems, it’s one of his own making, and despite his grumbling, he knows he deserves the irritation.</p><p>Even the sound of Sasheer flirting with a customer out on the sales floor, her laughter easy and fluttering, grates on his nerves, and once he finally places the last invoice back on the desk with a bitter flourish, he gathers his things to head out for a late lunch, hoping food will at least take the edge off of his sour mood. </p><p>If he wasn’t so caught up in his own misery over the Patrick situation, he would see this next mistake before he makes it. But he’s already drawing the curtain back by the time he recognizes the voice telling Sasheer he’ll get her tickets to a game sometime, and David finds himself staring straight into the face of Sebastien Raine.</p><p>“David!” he cries, disgusting in his delight.</p><p>Sebastien is still built like a whip, long and lithe and crackingly sharp, and David can feel the familiar sting of him beneath his skin as clearly as the day he’d walked out the door wrapped in a ratty sweater that belied the multimillion dollar contract he’d just inked with David’s tears. </p><p>There was a time when David would have given this man anything—a time when he had—and he grits his teeth against the way his pulse quickens and his skin warms, the same as it had before Sebastien had gone and broken his heart.</p><p>“Sebastien,” he returns with all the disdain he can muster, already pushing past him for the door.</p><p>Sebastien is quick though, reaching out for his arm and tugging him back around into an awkward embrace. When he pulls back to catch David’s face between his hands, it leaves him wondering if this is what butterfly specimens feel like in those scientific displays: pinned in place, splayed open for the world to see.</p><p>“You look healthy,” Sebastien says, and in spite of all their history, in spite of what he knows to be true, David tries to take it as a compliment. Maybe because it’s easier that way, or maybe because some desperate, pathetic part of him wants it to be. </p><p>Old habits.</p><p>“What are you, um, what are you doing here?” He throws a glance at Sasheer, who thankfully is wiping down the counter and at least pretending not to pay attention to this awkward reunion.</p><p>“Always so suspicious, David. My therapist says we all need to spend more time opening ourselves up to trust.”</p><p>David narrows his eyes, even as his traitorous heart thumps harder at the familiar feeling of Sebastien’s fingers along his jaw. “Like I trusted you not to use me and leave me for dead?”</p><p>“Ancient history.” He waves away David’s concerns with both hands, and David hates how his body misses their heat as soon as they’re gone. “You shouldn’t hold on to all that… anger.” His eyes rake down the length of David’s body and back up again, and the way he bites his lip is clearly calculated, but even as David rolls his eyes, he can feel his resolve softening. </p><p>This is what Sebastien does. He wears you down with flattery and flirtation, just enough to soften the sting of his previous blows. David knows that, knows firsthand how hollow it all is, and still he finds it hard to resist. Because it’s a powerful, addictive thing, being wanted by Sebastien Raine, even when it’s a lie.</p><p>“Let me make it up to you,” Sebastien offers, and it almost sounds sincere. “Let me take you to dinner.”</p><p><em>Absolutely not,</em> David tells himself. It’s a ploy. He knows Sebastien isn’t the least bit sorry for what he’d done, that he’d do it again in a heartbeat. He even knows exactly how this night will end if he gives in. </p><p>But Patrick left with hardly even a goodbye this morning and his phone has been silent and heavy in his pocket all day and David is sure that this is the end, that he’s fucked this up enough there will be no recovery. It feels like someone has wound him up, cranked a lever to tighten all his muscles painfully around his bones, and it isn’t going away; he’s uncomfortable and restless and maybe a little bit reckless, too, and even though he knows what Sebastien is doing, part of him wants it anyway. </p><p>Part of him thinks that maybe he deserves it.</p><p>He closes his eyes and nods, not wanting to see the satisfaction on Sebastien’s face when he gets what he wants. “Fine.”</p><p>“Excellent.” He steps around David and reaches for the door, a hand at the small of David’s back guiding him out of it while Sebastien stays firmly planted inside. “I’ll text you,” he says and closes the door in David’s face.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They’re halfway through dinner before the regret starts to win out over the self-loathing that let David agree to this in the first place.</p><p>Sebastien hasn’t stopped talking about himself since he sat down at the table, twenty minutes late. At first, the shock of being here and the old familiarity that had followed had been enough to keep David invested. The way Sebastien looks in his well-tailored tee, pulled taut across his lean chest and broad shoulders, sleeves stretched around strong, tan biceps, certainly hadn’t hurt either.</p><p>But for someone who claimed to be doing this for David’s sake, he’s doing a terrible job of even pretending to be interested in anything David might have to say.</p><p>After a play-by-play recap of his performance in his most recent game, a rundown of all the articles naming him a likely candidate for what David gathers is some kind of pitching award, and a full walkthrough of his new home in Brookline (complete with photos from the spread in <i>Architectural Digest</i>), he finally takes a big enough bite of his sea bass that David can manage to squeeze in the question that’s been circling his mind since this afternoon.</p><p>“How did you end up in my store today?”</p><p>There’s amusement dancing in the light of Sebastien’s eyes as he settles back in his seat and lifts his hands in a cool, casual shrug. “Do we really dare to question the universe?” he asks loftily, and if he mentions yet another piece of advice from his therapist that he’s clearly failed to heed, David is going to throw the rest of his vodka tonic right in his smarmy face. He hates that he used to find this attractive; he hates more that he still kind of does.</p><p>“‘The universe’ didn’t walk through the door of Rose Apothecary, Sebastien. You did. And I want to know why.”</p><p>“Guess it’s just old habit to check in on you.” He stabs at a piece of broccoli, chuckling as he lifts it to his simpering mouth. “Though I admit it’s strange paying for it myself for once.”</p><p>“I’m sorry?”</p><p>“I mean, I can afford it obviously, but it certainly loses some of the fun when you’re not playing with other people’s money.”</p><p>David drops his hands into his lap, pulling at the corner of his napkin. “What do you— What are you talking about?”</p><p>Sebastien laughs again, like they’re sharing a private joke, but David’s having trouble seeing exactly what’s so funny. “Your parents,” he says, and bile rises acrid and bitter in David’s throat. Sebastien, oblivious as ever to anyone else’s distress, just keeps smirking. “It’s sweet that they indulged your gallerist fantasies like that, and now your little store, too. Makes quite the statement about the performativity of capitalism.” He snaps at a passing waiter and points to his empty glass, while David fights to remain upright as all the blood drains away from his head in a fierce, awful rush. “It’s probably nice having actual paying customers every once in a while tho— What? Is there something in my teeth? What’s that look?”</p><p>David has no idea what his face is doing, but it must be particularly unpleasant if Sebastien has actually taken notice. But he doesn’t have the energy to worry about his expression when there’s a black hurricane of embarrassment and anxiety and fear and confusion raging in his chest, his storm-battered lungs just barely managing to keep him breathing through the torrent.</p><p>“You, um… M-my parents…”</p><p>“Shit.” Sebastien collapses back in his chair, running a hand through his hair and looking as close to contrite as David has ever seen him. That, more than anything, tells him that what Sebastien’s saying is true. “I thought you knew. I thought you were in on it—some kind of performance piece.”</p><p>“They paid you,” David says, the crisp edge of the words brittle and razor thin, ready to break. “They paid you to buy the art.”</p><p>“What minor league pitcher can afford an Ellen Altfest? You must have realized, and if you didn’t, well…”</p><p>Anger spikes up out of his despair. “‘Well’ what?”</p><p>Sebastien raises his hands placatingly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”</p><p>But he’s never been one to hold back from saying or doing things he shouldn’t. He’d never once missed an opportunity to say something careless or callous to David when they were dating, and while some people might take his failure to do so now as a sign of growth, David knows better. Whatever it is, it’s hurtful enough that even Sebastien in all his casual cruelty has realized it’s better off unsaid. But David’s been cut deeply enough already tonight that one more wound can’t possibly make a difference.</p><p>“No, you clearly have something to say, so just say it.”</p><p>The silence stretches just long enough for David to think maybe Sebastien doesn’t want to injure him any more than he already has. </p><p>But then:</p><p>“Maybe you aren’t cut out for business after all.”</p><p>And David was wrong. It still hurts. Like a slap across the face, expecting it does nothing to dull the sting, and his eyes water from the pain of it. This is what Sebastien does to him, what he’s always done to him. He finds ways to get David to participate in his own misery, to open himself up to it. David thinks about all the ways this has played out before, all the ways he’s convinced himself to trust Sebastien or to at least trust that the hurt was worth it. <em>You knew this was an open relationship,</em> Sebastien had said when he’d found the three of them in his bed. <em>You’re so clingy,</em> he’d grumbled into the midnight darkness, only hours before the move to Boston had been finalized. Every compliment and every promise and every sweet-sounding word Sebastien has ever said, all of it had been lies and careful manipulations, including the ones that had gotten David here tonight. He’d known that already, and yet he’d let himself fall for it all over again in his desperation to forget about Patrick for a little while.</p><p>“Thank you,” he says, holding the mess of his emotions back like blood seeping from an open wound, staunching the flow as best he can with the press of his own two hands.</p><p>The look on Sebastien’s face can only be described as bewildered, and if David weren’t trying so hard to stop himself from bleeding out right here on the restaurant floor, he’d laugh about finally having the upper hand in some small way.</p><p>“I think that’s the first honest thing you’ve ever said to me. So thank you for making this easy this time.” He pushes back and drops his napkin on the table. “Goodbye, Sebastien. You can pay for dinner, too. Use your own money—you can afford it.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>After the sixth text alert, David finally manages to muster up the energy to snake a hand out from under the covers and pluck his phone from the nightstand. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but still he hopes that maybe it’s Stevie. It would be worth the company if he can convince her to bring by a couple dozen cookies from that 24-hour bakery near her apartment so that he can spend the rest of the night in a sugar-induced coma.</p><p>It’s not Stevie, however, and he drops the phone on his face in surprise at the name splashed across his screen.</p><p>Patrick.</p><p>In all his wallowing, he’d forgotten about how awkward they had left things this morning. </p><p>Uncertain he can bear any more pain but unable to keep from opening himself up to it anyway, he pulls up his messages, as if tonight had taught him nothing at all.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header3"></span>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Hey I know it’s late, but you up?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Out having fun without me?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> We won tonight, 8-5, if you’re interested.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> OK I guess you’re either out or sleeping. Either way have a good night. Just wanted to say thanks again for letting me borrow your car.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> It’s parked in my usual space whenever you come back to Schitt’s Creek. Or I can drive it back down during our next home series or something.</span>
</p>
</div><p>Another text rolls in as he tries to read what Patrick’s already sent.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Goodnight, David. Talk to you tomorrow.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Hey</span>
</p>
</div><p>He responds before he’s really even decided he wants to, but Patrick’s acting like things between them are normal, and David so desperately wants them to be that he’s willing to jump into that fantasy with both feet.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Oh you are there. Big night?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Not really</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Congrats on your win</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Technically it’s your win too, boss. But thanks.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Tell me about the game?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Are you okay? You didn’t tell me you’re not my boss, and your eyes normally glaze over when I talk about games.</span>
</p>
</div><p>His stomach clenches at the thought that Patrick can read his current misery so well, even through texts.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Nevermind</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> It was a dumb idea</span>
</p>
</div><p>The phone rings in his hand barely a moment after he’s hit send.</p><p>“H-hello?”</p><p>“It wasn’t dumb,” Patrick says on the other end of the line, and David tries not to think too hard about the way his body relaxes at the sound of his voice. “I can tell you about the game if you want me to.”</p><p>“You don’t— You don’t have to do that.”</p><p>“David, it’s fine. I’d love to tell you about the game, if you want to hear about it, okay?”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>So he does. He tells David about all the big plays and about all his at-bats. David still doesn’t know all the terms he uses—he doesn’t know full count or groundout and makes a mental note to look them up later—but he’s seen enough games now to understand steal and bunt and shortstop. He doesn’t need to know the rest to understand the excitement in Patrick’s voice, the joy of talking about something you love, something you do well. Before tonight, David would have said he feels that way about his gallery and his store. He thought that was something he and Patrick had in common; even if they take pride in different things, they both know what it’s like to invest yourself in the things you love and the pleasure that comes from succeeding at it. Or so he’d thought. But it had only been an illusion, an image built in towering glass that had shattered and come crashing down all around him.</p><p>“David?”</p><p>“Huh? Oh, sorry, you were, um… you were saying something about a double play?”</p><p>Patrick laughs, sounding unbothered. “Yeah, like three minutes ago. Is everything alright?”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t it be?”</p><p>“I don’t know, but I’ve said Roland’s name at least four times in this conversation, and you haven’t complained about him even once. Are you busy? Because I can let you go if—”</p><p>“No.” It comes out more forceful, more desperate, than he intends. He’s spiraling, and he suspects that the soothing sound of Patrick’s voice is all that’s keeping him from descending into a full-blown panic attack. “No, I just— It was a long day.” </p><p><em>I missed you,</em> he thinks, the feeling of it so loud and sudden that he isn’t entirely sure he hasn’t said it aloud. <em>I missed you,</em> and he realizes just how much he means it. He’d seen Patrick just this morning, and still he misses him like it’s been weeks, like it’s been a lifetime. That’s probably something he should spend some time taking apart, but right now he just doesn’t have the emotional capacity to work through it. He’s missed Patrick, and Patrick is here on the phone with him, and David isn’t going to give that up if he can help it.</p><p>“Tell me about it?” Patrick asks. “I mean, if you want to. You don’t have t—”</p><p>“I had dinner with my ex.”</p><p>“Oh. Uh. O-okay.”</p><p>It’s only after he’s said it that he realizes how that might look to Patrick. How it might imply that— well, he still doesn’t know exactly what they are, but that he might be interested in something else anyway. “Not, like, <em>dinner</em> dinner,” he tries to explain. “He came by the store, and we had a lot of, um, unfinished business. It wasn’t exactly an amicable break-up, and I just—”</p><p>“David, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. I know how messy break-ups can be. And how easy it is to fall back into things.”</p><p>It sounds like Patrick’s speaking from experience, and David wants to ask a million questions in response, but they’ll keep for later. “No. God no. It’s nothing like that. I mean, maybe for a second I thought… But no. No, I’m definitely not getting back together with Sebastien. Ever. We are completely done after everything tonight.”</p><p>“What happened tonight?”</p><p>He doesn’t really want to get into all the horrible details of it, but as usual he finds that his walls aren’t quite as sturdy around Patrick and it all comes spilling out through the cracks anyway. The gallery. The money. The way his entire professional career has been built on lies. The call he’d made to his mother who couldn’t seem to understand why he was so upset about it all. The shame of finding out through Sebastien of all people, the one person who had already hurt him the most, finding new and unexpected ways to destroy him all over again. The questions that have been running across the scrolling marquee in his mind since then. Should he close the gallery? Should he stop work on the second Rose Apothecary location? His mother had said they didn’t bother with the store at all, focusing all their efforts on just keeping the gallery afloat, but how can he be sure? Should he give it all up, the businesses, the money—his parents’ money—and run away to some small, shitty town somewhere to figure out how to start over again on his own?</p><p>He goes on and on until his throat is scratchy from all the fear and the doubt and the shame being dragged from him, until his voice is thick and hoarse with it, and Patrick just listens and listens and listens, encouraging him on when he needs it and sitting silently by when he doesn’t. And finally when he’s done, he feels like he can breathe again, the weight on his chest a little lighter simply for sharing the burden of it with someone else. </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, even though none of this is even remotely his fault. “And I’m sorry you had to find out that way. Maybe their intentions were good, but they definitely went about it all wrong.” He pauses, and David takes comfort in just listening to the sound of his breath on the other end of the line. “But your success isn’t only because of your parents, you know. They didn’t buy all your good reviews, all your publicity.”</p><p>“You don’t know that.”</p><p>“They didn’t.” He says it like he knows, and David has no idea how he can possibly feel so certain about that. “And even if they did, so what?”</p><p>David scoffs and starts to protest again, but Patrick cuts him off.</p><p>“No, David, listen. Even if your parents paid for your patrons and your sales and all of that—which I agree is over the line—but even if they bought that feature in <i>Juxtapoz</i>—”</p><p>“You saw that?”</p><p>“Oh, um, yeah. I might have... come across it. A while ago. Anyway, my point is that not everyone who saw that, not everyone who comes to your gallery was paid by your parents. It’s not possible. There are— There are people who come to the gallery because of you. Because of <em>your</em> vision. They read about it or they see reviews or they pass by on the street and decide to stop because of you. Because something about what you’re doing speaks to them, interests them, draws them in. <em>You</em> did that. Not your parents.”</p><p>David shakes his head before he remembers that Patrick can’t see him. “You can’t possibly know that.”</p><p>“I do,” Patrick says, forceful with conviction. And then he laughs, a small, shaking thing. “I know because I went.”</p><p>David bolts up out of the nest of pillows in which he’s been wallowing. “What?”</p><p>“Yeah. I didn’t— I didn’t say anything. Before. It’s… I didn’t want it to be weird. But it kinda seems like you need to know.” The last part sounds like a question, so David encourages him on.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“I guess it was a couple weeks after we met. I had a day off, so I drove down and checked it out. Wondered if maybe I’d run into you there, but you weren’t…” A smile starts to spread across David’s face at the thought of Patrick looking for him, and he wonders when this was exactly, where he might have been at the time. If he’d known, he would have probably dropped just about anything to be there instead. “Anyway. My point is I went. Because of you. Not because your parents paid me to. And it was great. I don’t know much about art, but even I can tell that you’ve got such a good eye for it—and the store, too. You’re good at what you do, David. Really good. So what if your parents thought you needed a little help? It’s your ideas that made it possible at all. It’s your ideas that keep people coming back. It’s all you.”</p><p>David’s glad this conversation is happening over the phone so that Patrick can’t see the way he’s grown pink at his words or the way his eyes have gone a bit shiny and wet. It’s bad enough that he has to clear his throat before he speaks. “So you, um, you don’t think that I need to close it all down and move to a dirty motel in the middle of nowhere to live out the rest of my life in shame?”</p><p>Patrick’s laugh is threaded through with easy warmth; it’s a sound that feels like being wrapped up tight and safe in someone’s arms. “No, I don’t think it’s come to that. Though the Schitt’s Creek Motel doesn’t have any vacancies anyway.”</p><p>“Okay, yeah, I definitely haven’t sunk that low,” David replies and, finally, lets himself believe it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I didn’t add a footnote for these since they weren’t really necessary to understand the story, but in case you don’t know the terms and want to... </p><p>Full count: When a batter has 3 balls and 2 strikes. The next strike will result in an out, while the next ball will result in a walk.</p><p>Groundout: When a batter hits the ball along the ground and a fielder scoops it up and throws it to/touches first base in time to get the batter out.</p><p>Bunt: When a batter holds the bat parallel to the front of home plate instead of swinging it, in order to gently tap the ball into play.</p><p> </p><p>No specific fun fact this week since there wasn't much baseball here, but instead <a href="https://www.mutualart.com/Artist/Ellen-Altfest/2BFE04F9C7DF5C49#:~:text=Ellen%20Altfest's%20work%20has%20been,Christie's%20New%20York%20in%202012.">here's a look at some of Ellen Altfest's work</a>, if you're interested. (Some images on website are nsfw.) Her paintings have sold for anywhere from $5,000 to $80,000, so Sebastien is definitely right that no minor league baseball player is gonna be out here buying them.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. bases loaded</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Whitney has kicked off the second hour of David’s playlist, wondering where broken hearts go, by the time Stevie finally asks.</p><p>“So this little trip doesn’t have anything to do with the homestand that starts tomorrow?”</p><p>David inspects his cuticles a bit more closely. “I don’t even know what that means.”</p><p><a id="return6" name="return6"></a>“You’re not seriously gonna play dumb with me, are you?” The quizzical look she pins him with goes on long enough that he nearly reaches for the wheel, but as soon as he starts to squirm, she finally turns back to the road. “Just yesterday you told me that Patrick missed out on hitting for the cycle because he was tagged out trying for the double in the bottom of the eighth.<sup>[<a href="#note6">6</a>]</sup> So are you still gonna try to tell me that you don’t know what ‘homestand’ means?”</p><p>To be fair, he’s only just learned what most of those things are—Patrick had had to explain some of it twice before he’d actually understood it during one of the nightly phone calls they’ve shared this week. He’s sure Patrick is just checking in on him after everything that happened with Sebastien and his parents, but he can’t say he hasn’t been enjoying their conversations either way.</p><p>“Fine. Yes, there’s a home series. Yes, I’m going to hang out with Patrick while he’s in town. And no, it still isn’t a date, no matter how many times you insinuate otherwise.”</p><p>“But you want it to be a date.”</p><p>He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that we’re just friends.”</p><p>“That doesn’t mean you can’t want it to be a date.”</p><p>Of course he wants it to be a date—he’s wanted every time they’ve hung out to be a date—but admitting it to anyone other than himself feels like pressing his luck. “How are things with Jake?” he tries instead.</p><p>“He’s Jake,” she says. “You know, still fucks like he’s trying to win some kind of medal.” A smirk slides onto her face as smoothly as she shifts lanes to pass a beat up old pickup truck. “You remember sex, right? It’s that thing you could be doing with Patrick if you’d just get up the courage to—”</p><p>“Friends,” David says again, emphatic. “Just friends. You know, like you and me, when you aren’t asking me pointless questions.”</p><p>“Except we’ve also had sex, so you’re not really helping your argument here.”</p><p>“I— You— That’s not a requirement for friendship,” he sputters, and she smiles over at him like she’s won. “I have no intention of having sex with Patrick.”</p><p>“Hasn’t stopped you before.”</p><p>“Okay.” He throws up his hands in exasperation. “You don’t even <em>like</em> Patrick. Not even a week ago you were giving him the third degree.”</p><p>“I never said I didn’t like him. I just said you should be careful.”</p><p>He shifts to lean against the door so that he can stare at her across the seats. “And just like that, you’ve changed your mind? He’s suddenly worthy in a way he wasn’t on Monday?”</p><p>She shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much.”</p><p>“Care to elaborate?” he asks when she doesn’t go on.</p><p>“Look, I’m not saying you shouldn’t still be careful, but…”</p><p>“But what?”</p><p>“But...” The words come out through gritted teeth, like it pains her to say them. “You seem happy. Even with everything with your parents right now, you’re just… happier than you’ve been in a long time.”</p><p>David can only sit in silence, wondering if that’s true. He is still upset with his parents about the gallery situation, but he supposes that Stevie’s right that he hasn’t been as miserable about it as he would have expected to be. He’s thought about it while working, of course, but his nights have been full of anticipation for Patrick’s calls. That might not exactly be happiness, but it’s been a good distraction if nothing else. </p><p>“I think he might actually be good for you,” she adds quietly. </p><p>David isn’t entirely sure what to say to that, so he turns up the volume on Tina asking what love’s got to do with it and says nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The homestand consists of a four game series against Toledo, followed by three against Durham, and David spends the whole of it in Schitt’s Creek, blending this new piece of his life seamlessly together with the old.</p><p>Mornings are spent alone in his hotel room, emailing back and forth with vendors and continuing to prep for the launch. There are calls from his mother, which he lets go unanswered. There are Instagram posts from Alexis, still surprisingly stateside, and, even more shockingly, in the company of the same girl he’d seen her with last. There are texts from Stevie, sometimes about work but mostly just being nosy.</p><p>It’s life as he’s always known it, just conducted from a different location.</p><p>And then in the afternoons and evenings, there’s baseball. And it’s only strange how much that’s starting to feel like life as he’s always known it, too. </p><p>The game is comforting and familiar in its routine. There’s the pregame stretching, where he gets his first glimpse of Patrick each day. There’s the ceremonial first pitch from some local “celebrity,” who turns out to be Roland’s wife at least sixty percent of the time. There’s the moment the Bears take the field, trotting out to the cheers of the small but enthusiastic crowd, Patrick settling in behind home plate in all his protective gear. From there, it’s a pitch and maybe a swing, an out when they can manage to find it. Three outs, then six. Nine innings. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” in the middle of the seventh. “Tom Sawyer” every time Patrick comes up to bat. There’s a rhythm to it all, a cadence that drums like a shared heartbeat amongst the crowd, and David is starting to feel it there beside his own pulse, weak but steady. He finds himself holding his breath with everyone else when a runner dives into a slide, letting it all out at once when a fly ball lands safely in an outfielder’s glove, edging forward in his seat as someone rounds the corner for home. He can feel it, just a little, that magic that crackles in the air when a ball arcs high and fast through the night, and he thinks he’s starting to get why Patrick chose this, why it captured his imagination as a child and why he’s spent his life chasing this feeling.</p><p>After the games there are more hot dogs, and most nights, conversations that run so late Twyla has to turn out the lights on them.</p><p>David only heads home again after the team sets off for a week in Ohio, but he and Patrick continue to text every free moment they get, sending updates and quick notes of encouragement and funny things they see throughout the day. Stevie starts rolling her eyes every time he gets a new notification, the response nearly Pavlovian by the end of the week.</p><p>All of it feels like… something. Something big and new and terrifying and desperately wanted. </p><p>His friendship with Stevie, while similar in the ease with which they talk and laugh and move around one another, has never felt as electric as this. None of his dates or short-lived relationships ever have either. Even the start of everything with Sebastien, back before it had all gone to shit, had never left him as breathless as this thing with Patrick does. </p><p>The closest he can recall ever coming to this feeling is the time he’d chickened out of cliff diving with two of the three Jonas brothers in Costa Rica. He can’t quite remember which two, but what he does remember is the swooping mix of fear and anticipation as he’d stood on the rocky peak, looking down at the swirling, watery unknown into which he was supposed to plummet. Back then he hadn’t made the leap, choosing instead to climb back down the way he’d gone up. He isn’t sure he’s any braver now, but it’s starting to feel like maybe it could be worth taking the plunge.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Sunlight streams in through a gap in the fugly curtains of David’s dingy hotel room, far more bright and dazzling than any Monday morning has the right to be. It drags him resisting into consciousness, and then as he comes back to himself and the memory of what day it is trickles in, that white hot, tingling feeling he’s been having these last couple weeks surges up again in full, shimmering force. </p><p>He stretches across the mattress to grab his phone and thumbs open his conversation with Patrick from late last night.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header3"></span>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> What do you want to do tomorrow? Or today rather, considering the time.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> What do you normally do on your day off? I don’t want to mess up your routine</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> My usual routine consists of laundry, calling my mother, reading a bit, and falling asleep far too early for a man still in his 20s.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Barely</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Yeah, okay, old man.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> I was going to offer to help with your laundry, but if you’re just going to be rude, I’ll take my services where they’re actually wanted</span>
</p>
</div><p>David’s never washed a load of laundry in his life, but if Patrick had texted back then that that was truly how he’d wanted to spend the day, he strongly suspects that he would have done it. He might have even—maybe, possibly, unwillingly—enjoyed it. Still, it wouldn’t exactly have been the fun day together he’d been hoping for.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> While I’m sure your laundry skills are legendary, I’m not actually in danger of running out of underwear, so I think it can wait a day or two.</span>
</p>
</div><p>He decidedly had not thought about Patrick’s underwear.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Well then what do you WANT to do?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> What do you do for fun here? Or what have you wanted to do and not gotten around to yet?</span>
</p>
</div><p>Really, what he wants to see is what Patrick likes to do when David isn’t around, who he is here, shut away by himself in this godforsaken town. Patrick’s been to the store. He’s been to the gallery. He’s been to David’s loft. He’s seen so much of the world that David usually inhabits; David wants to see more of his.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> We should do something that you’ll enjoy too though.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> As long as you don’t ask me to do anything involving moths or business women in sneakers, I think we’ll be fine</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Besides, you spent your last day off helping me at the store. It’s your turn. It’s Patrick day</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Checking my calendar, but I don’t think that’s an official holiday.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> It is now, and we’re celebrating it. So what’s your dream day off? How are we going to spend the first annual Patrick day?</span>
</p>
</div><p>David had blushed when he’d realized the implications of what he’d typed and then blushed deeper still when he’d realized just how much he meant it. He really does hope this will be just the first of many to come.</p><p>It had taken a while after that for Patrick to text back, long enough that David had begun to wonder if he’d fallen asleep. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had drifted off in the middle of these late night conversations.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Okay, but that means my next day off is going to be David day. Working on the store last time doesn’t count.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Deal</span>
</p>
</div><p>That’s where they’d left things last night, and now that morning is here, David realizes he has no idea what to expect. And for someone who doesn’t love surprises in most arenas of his life, he finds that he isn’t as anxious about that as he would have anticipated. He’s curious, certainly, to see what Patrick will choose. He’s maybe even a little excited about it. </p><p>Because everything they’ve done together so far, every text they’ve sent, every post-game meal they’ve shared, has revealed some new piece of who Patrick is, and for every fact David’s already learned—<em>why baseball</em> and <em>what’s your lucky number</em> and <em>do you have any siblings</em> and <em>who’s your favorite pop diva</em>—there are millions more he wants to know. He wants to be an expert in Patrick Brewer, the craving for it aching deep in the pit of his belly. </p><p>And not just in the big things; he wants to learn all the little, ordinary, everyday ones, too. He wants to know what time Patrick wakes up when he doesn’t have a game, whether he even bothers to set an alarm. What the name of his childhood best friend was. How he greets his mom when he calls her. What brand of laundry soap he uses. When and where he had his first kiss. If he leaves the bathroom door open when he showers. David wants all of that and more—every happy memory and every annoying habit, every buried secret and every broken bone, every single intimate piece of himself that Patrick is willing to share.</p><p>For now though, he’ll settle for at least knowing what he should wear today. He fires off a text to Patrick and rolls out of bed in search of a shower and as much caffeine as his tiny hotel coffee maker can provide.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Can I amend my previous text?” David asks, his hands twitching in his lap as he watches the lush forest around them slip by. Patrick glances away from the road just long enough to give him a puzzled look before refocusing on the upcoming hairpin turn. “I know I said moths, but I’m not, um, exactly a fan of nature. In general.”</p><p>Patrick has the nerve to laugh at that, and David can feel his stomach twisting out of place. Or perhaps that’s just the curve and the speed at which they take it, Patrick smoothly shifting gears, clearly enjoying the experience of driving David’s Audi over his ancient Toyota. It doesn’t feel reckless, however, with Patrick at the wheel; it’s exhilarating in precisely the right way, not because of the danger of it but because of the control, because Patrick is good at this, the way he’s good at baseball, and the confidence with which he does it is intoxicating.</p><p>“Don’t worry. I’m not taking you hiking,” he says as David eyes yet another marker indicating a trail that leads off deep into the darkened woods around them. </p><p>“Thank god. I don’t think I could even be friends with someone who likes to hike. But really I’m starting to worry that murder is a more likely option way out here.” </p><p>Way out here is, of course, an exaggeration. They’re only about thirty minutes outside of Schitt’s Creek, in some kind of state park if the big sign they’d passed is to be believed. When Patrick had told him to wear sunscreen (as if he ever goes without) and something comfortable, this isn’t exactly what he had been picturing as their destination. </p><p>“David, you’re just going to have to trust me, okay?”</p><p>Trust isn’t something David has in any great supply, but he tries his best to muster some up to give to Patrick. “Okay, well, just remember that your next day off is David day, and I will have no problem with taking my revenge then if necessary.”</p><p>“Noted.”</p><p>After another few minutes under the oppressive darkness of the thick canopy of leaves, the trees begin to thin, the late summer sun shining through. The higher they climb, the more blue David can see above them, and it eases his anxiety just a little.</p><p>Finally, the road levels out and the trees scamper back away from the pavement, and Patrick pulls them into a small, empty parking lot, bounding out the door nearly as soon as they’ve stopped. “Let’s go, David,” he calls as he digs a couple bags out of the backseat, and he’s setting off across the asphalt before David can even manage to open his door. </p><p>He’s just reaching a trail marker as David catches up and makes a big show of heading down the trail a few meters before turning back again, smirking at the dramatic huff David aims his way. He leads them instead through some grass off to the side and past the bordering line of trees. <em>Murder</em> flashes through David’s mind again, but he squashes it down under a heavy gulp of air and follows in Patrick’s wake.</p><p>A footpath has been worn through the undergrowth, and after following it just a few dozen steps or so, they emerge onto a wide carpet of green, some flat little knob on the side of the mountain, hidden from the trail and the parking lot by the thick summer foliage and with enough room to spread out that David doesn’t feel like he’s in danger of pitching over the edge. The valley stretches out below them, a river twisting lazily amongst fields and hills rolling verdant and lush off toward the horizon. It’s beautiful, breathtakingly so, and leaves David feeling a little like they’re standing alone at the top of the world.</p><p>“What are we doing?” he asks as Patrick digs into one of the bags, wary that some kind of outdoor or sports equipment is about to appear.</p><p>But what Patrick emerges with is a quilt, stitched together in blue and white squares, and he lays it out carefully across the grass at their feet. “We’re having a picnic.”</p><p>Containers of cheese and crusty bread follow. Fresh cut fruit and pasta salad. Mini chicken salad croissants. Butterscotch blondies. A thermos, too, and a couple of plastic cups, which Patrick explains with a shrug. “Wine. We’re not exactly supposed to have alcohol here, but what the park service doesn’t know won’t hurt them. Come on. Sit down.”</p><p>It takes a minute for David to comply, astounded by the spread now laid out before them and the inherent, if unintended, romance of both the gesture and the setting, but finally he shakes the thought from his head and folds himself down onto the blanket at Patrick’s side.</p><p>“This is what you wanted to do for Patrick day?”</p><p>“You don’t like it.” Patrick deflates as quickly as if David had punctured him.</p><p>“No! No, I like it. It’s just, you could pick anything you wanted to do, and… you chose this. A picnic. With me.”</p><p>He doesn’t exactly mean to let that last bit slip out, but something softens in Patrick’s face upon hearing it. It’s yet another in a long line of looks that David wants to kiss, and he grabs ahold of all his self-control, clutching it tightly as he forces himself to look away instead. A large bird of some kind soars out over the valley, and he watches it glide out into the distance until it’s nothing but a dark smudge, an easy splash of brown against wide, blinding blue. </p><p>If only he could set all his longing free like that, send it adrift on a warm breeze to be swallowed up by open skies.</p><p>“I have a confession to make,” Patrick says suddenly, and David ignores the way his heart kicks against his ribs in favor of turning a steady, open, inviting look his way. Because even if he can’t possibly mean what David wants him to mean, he still wants every secret Patrick is willing to entrust into his cradled hands.</p><p>Patrick clears his throat, his expression serious. “I, um…” he starts and falters, and David sits up a little straighter, wondering what it is that could make Patrick so hesitant. “I…” he tries again. “I actually do. Like hiking.”</p><p>A hot burst of laughter punches up out of David’s chest, and Patrick grins, wide and pleased and teasing. “Well thank you for not subjecting me to that today.”</p><p>“I think I know you a little better than that, David.” </p><p>It’s a scary thought, that Patrick sees him so clearly, or at least David thinks that it should be. But instead of fear or trepidation, all he finds is contentment, settled deep into the marrow of his bones. Because Patrick doesn’t use that knowledge to hurt him the way others he’s let get close have; instead he brings David on picnics because he wouldn’t like hiking, takes him to wine and paint nights because he cares about art, waits till 10 on the dot to text him because he isn’t a morning person. Patrick uses what he knows to make David happy, stupidly so, and he can only hope that he’s returning even a fraction of that joy Patrick’s way.</p><p>“You didn’t answer me though. Why this?” he asks as Patrick hands him a cup of pale golden wine.</p><p>They start in on the rest of the food, loading up paper plates with little bites of everything, before Patrick gives him an answer. “I don’t know, I’ve always enjoyed hiking, I guess, and I figured this was as close as I’d get you to the real thing.” He’s smirking like it’s a joke, but the shrug he gives David along with it is one that he’s come to know well; it’s the one that means <em>I don’t really want to talk about it.</em> But Patrick’s the one who had brought it up—the one who brought them all the way out here when David had given him free rein over the day—and David isn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. </p><p>He nudges his knee over until it bumps against Patrick’s. “Is there some kind of story there?”</p><p>“No. No story, not really…” The bird still drifting out over the valley circles in closer again, and David watches Patrick watching it, tracing its wide, arcing path with his eyes for several long breaths before he finally says anything more. “I used to go hiking a lot with— Well, before I came here anyway. It was nice to be outside for more than just games.” He takes a large sip of wine, adam’s apple bobbing tightly up and down as he swallows. “But I started going by myself more. Kind of used it to… I don’t know, figure some things out, I guess. Seemed easier to think out there, you know?”</p><p>David doesn’t know, not precisely, though he can understand the need to escape your usual surroundings for a while. The last time he’d needed that, however, he’d popped down to Richard Branson’s place on Necker Island, not into the nearest stretch of woods.</p><p>“I suppose along the way it stopped being something I did for fun. And then I stopped doing it at all.” Patrick sighs and forces his shoulders back and down. “But I’d like to get that back.”</p><p>There’s a little crinkle settled into the space between his brows, and David resists the urge to reach over and smooth it away with his fingers. “That’s how I feel about tequila,” he jokes instead, relieved that Patrick’s answering laugh is warm and liquid and free. He wants to bathe in that sound. Maybe drown himself in it. And he smiles a little to himself when Patrick shakes off some of the melancholy that’s settled over him, his next words seeming to come easier for it.</p><p>“Baseball got like that, too, for a while.”</p><p>David lets that pronouncement linger in the space between them, eating enough to need to fill up his plate again before he asks, “And what about now?”</p><p>The corners of those perfect lips pitch gently upward. “It’s funny how figuring out what you want can make everything a little brighter.”</p><p>“And what is it that you want?” David asks, thinking of big league contracts and sponsorship deals and all the things Patrick could do with that kind of money. He can’t picture him in some sprawling mansion like the one Sebastien bought for himself in Boston, but at least something he hasn’t rented from Ray would be a good start. A new car, too.</p><p>Patrick looks up from his plate, gentle eyes meeting David’s, searching for something in the steady silence. They’re brighter in the midday sunlight, a rich, honeyed amber shining up out of the warm chestnut, and they sparkle with something David doesn’t quite recognize.</p><p>“I want lots of things,” he says so carefully that David could swear he’s holding his breath.</p><p>And, <em>oh</em>, that’s a look David knows after all. It’s the one he’d seen in his bathroom mirror this morning as he’d gotten ready to take on an unknown adventure with Patrick at his side, the one he’s watched take over his own reflection for weeks now, brightening sliver by sliver like a waxing moon. </p><p><em>Hope,</em> he thinks. It’s hope, and Patrick is offering it up to him like an outstretched hand.</p><p>Could it be this easy?</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>Maybe.</p><p>Because maybe David’s been too caught up in his own wants and fears, too busy ignoring the itch in his own fingers to even consider that Patrick might be doing the same. Maybe Patrick has been quietly reaching for him all along, and all David needs to do is reach back, meet him halfway.</p><p>He focuses on that glittering, golden look in Patrick’s eyes and lets himself be brave, hoping—no, trusting—that they’re both saying the same thing when he quietly admits, “I want lots of things, too.”</p><p>The smile that settles on Patrick’s mouth is small but painfully sweet, and it feels like something’s been settled between them, as surely as if they’d shaken hands on it. And as David gazes out again across the glittering water snaking through the valley, he knows without a doubt: one way or another, he’s going to kiss Patrick by the end of the night.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Their picnic lasts far longer than David would have expected; even after the food is long gone, they lounge about in the heat of the afternoon sun, talking and laughing or simply sitting together looking out at the beauty of their surroundings. It’s only when the sun dips low enough on the horizon for him to get anxious about them making their way back down the twisty mountain roads in the dark that they head back for the car.</p><p>“I had one more idea,” Patrick says once they’re driving down again through the thick of the forest. “But I don’t know if you’re gonna like it.”</p><p>David’s mind flashes to all the things he’s done that he didn’t enjoy, purely for the pleasure of people he liked a whole lot less than Patrick, and he realizes that there’s not much he wouldn’t do for this man. “I told you last night—no moths, no business women in sneakers. Pretty much everything else is fair game.”</p><p>Patrick looks at him carefully out of the corner of his eye. It feels like he’s sizing up how much David really means that, so he tries to arrange his face into something open and accepting rather than its usual sarcasm and judgment. “I want to watch baseball with you.”</p><p>Creases etch themselves into the space between his brows. “You play baseball every day, and you want to spend Patrick day watching <em>more</em> baseball?”</p><p>“No,” Patrick says. “I mean, <em>yes,</em> I want to watch a game, but it’s not— I just—” He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything else.</p><p>“You just…?”</p><p>For a long moment David thinks Patrick isn’t going to answer him, but then he sighs, breathing the words out with it. “I want to watch a game with <em>you.</em>”</p><p>“Oh.” The low hum buzzing beneath David’s skin, not anxiety but anticipation, rattles quicker against his bones. </p><p>“It’s just that usually I’m on the road and then we talk about the games after, or if you’re in Schitt’s Creek then I’m playing and you’re watching from your box, and I don’t really get to watch a lot of other games anyway, I mean I see clips but not many full games, but this is what I love and I want to share it with you, and we’ve never—”</p><p>“Patrick,” David interrupts his frankly adorable rambling. “It’s fine.” </p><p><em>This is what I love and I want to share it with you.</em> The words circle around and around in his mind, and fine doesn’t even begin to cover what this is.</p><p>“Are you sure?” There’s so much nervous optimism in those three words that David feels like he might crack in two.</p><p>“Yep. Yes. I’m sure. Let’s watch some baseball.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Patrick turns into the parking lot of the stadium at David’s insistence, pulling into his usual space. </p><p>“What are we doing here?” he asks when David reaches over to turn off the car and pull out the key.</p><p>“We’re watching baseball.”</p><p>He climbs out of the car and sets off across the lot toward the side entrance he uses when he comes to games. It takes a few seconds before he hears Patrick’s door close and hurried footsteps behind him. “You know that the fact that I’m here with you means there isn’t a game being played here today, right?”</p><p>David rolls his eyes. “Okay, I may not know <em>everything</em> about baseball, but I am aware of that much, yes.” He opens the text reply he’d gotten after shooting off a quick series of messages in the car, entering the string of numbers into the electronic lock, which flashes green, and he swings the door open, gesturing Patrick inside. At the end of the hall, he turns away from the elevator that leads up to his box and instead marches across the room toward the door that says <em>Bears Clubhouse.</em></p><p>David hesitates as they climb the stairs at the end of the tunnel, but Patrick steps right out onto the field, his shoulders relaxing like there’s something comfortable and safe about being here. Like he’s at home. David, however, despite his upbringing, couldn’t feel more like this is the last place he belongs. But Patrick certainly has a way of getting him to set foot in places he never thought he’d go, so he steps carefully out into the grass beside him. “This way,” he says, tugging Patrick’s elbow toward centerfield where there are two folding chairs, a cooler, and a small table laden with food waiting for them.</p><p>“What’s all this?” Patrick asks as David fires off another text.</p><p>“Well, we could have gone to a <em>sports bar.</em>” He says the words with the kind of disdain he usually reserves for whomever Alexis needs rescuing from this month. “But why watch on a normal-sized tv, surrounded by drunken idiots, when we could do this instead.”</p><p>Right on cue, the stadium screen lights up, and the sound system crackles to life, and Patrick’s entire face radiates with joy at the surprise of it. His head swivels from the game just starting on the screen to the food to David to the stadium all around them and back again, looking more like a kid on Christmas than any actual child David has ever seen.</p><p>“I—” He shakes his head, those deep, dark eyes latching on to David’s, full up with unreserved sincerity. “Thank you, David.”</p><p>David shrugs. It was hardly anything, just a few texts and a few hundred dollars to bribe Ray and some of his crew. To be honest, it would have been worth twenty times as much just to see that look on Patrick’s face, but Patrick doesn’t need to know that. “Shall we?” he asks instead, gesturing toward the chairs.</p><p>They settle in and make themselves comfortable, digging into the takeout containers of Cafe Tropical’s finest offerings, or at least those least likely to give them food poisoning. David goes straight for the hot dogs of course, grumbling when Patrick insists that he share, but he pushes the styrofoam box back into the middle of the table anyway.</p><p>Halfway through the first inning, David finally manages to pay enough attention to the game to recognize who’s playing it and drops the french fry in his hand with a groan. “Oh god.”</p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>He flails a hand toward the screen. “I just told Ray to put on whatever game was going to start soon. I didn’t realize it would be the Red Sox.”</p><p>Patrick’s brows pop up in surprise. “Frankly I’m shocked you know any teams beside the Blue Jays, and even then I only put it at about 50-50 odds that you remember their name most days.”</p><p>“I wish I didn’t,” David replies. “Hard to forget the team your ex left you for though.” He scowls at the man on screen currently walking out to the mound, all arrogance and swagger, with a grin that says the attention of everyone watching is the least of what’s owed to him. It had been an attractive look once, but after their last dinner it just makes David feel like shit that he had been taken in by all that false charm time and time again.</p><p>Patrick follows his gaze and then whips back around again. “Wait. Your ex is Sebastien <em>Raine?</em>”</p><p>“Unfortunately.”</p><p>David can see the gears turning in Patrick’s head and the moment they click into place. “He’s the one you had dinner with a couple weeks ago, the one who hurt you.” </p><p>There’s something fierce and strangely possessive in his tone, like he truly cares about David’s pain, and the heat of it licks up under David’s skin beside the raw sting of Sebastien’s wounds, sharp and soothing all at once.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says, and if Patrick is going to be somehow incensed on his behalf, he might as well know the whole of it. “He, um, only really dated me to get close to my dad, I guess. Get in his good graces, meet some of the other owners and managers and whomever.” On the screen, Sebastien lifts up his hat and artfully ruffles his hair, and David rolls his eyes. “We were together for 4 months, though I found out toward the end that he’d, uh, you know, been seeing other people for like a month of that. And then he finally talked his way into some kind of deal and—” He shrugs. “That was it.”</p><p>He watches Sebastien strike out a batter before he turns to Patrick, hoping it will have given him enough time to clear the inevitable pity from his eyes. Instead, David only finds softness there, something tender and aching, and he has to swallow against the sudden tightness in his throat.</p><p>“Fuck him.”</p><p>David rears back so quickly in surprise that his chair pitches straight over on its side, dumping him laughing out onto the ground. </p><p>“You okay?” Patrick asks through laughter of his own, pushing to his feet. David nods, expecting him to offer him a hand up, but instead he plops down on the ground beside him, kicking off his shoes and stretching out on his back right there in the outfield grass. </p><p>David should get up—his sweater might never recover from this—but Patrick is so close and comfortable, and David wants him <em>so badly</em> he’d give up the entirety of this year’s Rick Owens spring/summer collection to stay right here together on this field forever.</p><p>“So obviously we’re rooting for the Padres in this game then,” Patrick says, launching David into another fit of giggles. </p><p>When they subside, he rearranges himself beside Patrick, two parallel lines, their elbows just touching as they pillow their arms under their heads. Sebastien strikes out another batter, and Patrick boos, loudly, and David could roll over and kiss him right now. He doesn’t, but the urge stays with him the whole game. It’s there as Patrick cheers on Martinez trotting around the bases after hitting a two-run homer, Sebastien’s head shaking in disbelief. It’s there as they high five when Sebastien bunts foul and Patrick spends fifteen minutes expounding on the advantages of the designated hitter rule. It’s there, but it’s banked, as the innings roll on and David lets go of everything but this, lets himself just enjoy watching the game with someone who enjoys watching it with him.</p><p><a id="return7" name="return7"></a>When Henderson catches a foul tip to retire the side, Patrick pumps his fist in solidarity, and David is overcome with affection, burying his smile in the palm of his hand.<sup>[<a href="#note7">7</a>]</sup></p><p>“What?” Patrick asks when he catches him looking. He rolls toward David, propping himself up on an elbow as his mouth twists in a bemused imitation of his hidden grin. It feels comfortable and intimate and close in a way that warms David’s body from head to toe, and he shakes his head because he doesn’t know how to even begin to explain it, this feeling that’s rising up inside him like summer air. </p><p>But they’ve tacitly agreed, he thinks, to be more open with each other now, to be braver, to reach for the things they want, and so David admits, “This is nice.”</p><p>“Yeah?” It’s worth it for the way that Patrick’s face lights up at David’s confession, and he knows that he could spend ages chasing down that look, weeks and months and maybe even years if Patrick will let him, doing everything he can to see it again and again and again.</p><p>“I mean Ray could have picked a better game.” He laughs, and Patrick does, too, low and secret and meant only for him, even though there’s no one else around to hear. “But the company is pretty good.”</p><p>Patrick’s smile is brighter than the stadium lights, and David lets the image sear itself into his memory, white hot and blinding, before they both turn back to the game. They watch the rest just like that, with Patrick looming at the edge of David’s vision, occasionally leaning in even closer to explain some rule or nuance related to the action on screen. And David tries to pay attention to the game. He really does. But it’s different, he realizes, watching it on a screen instead of right in front of him, that intangible <em>something</em> he’s been starting to feel getting a little fuzzy in the transmission. Mostly though, it’s that Patrick himself is a distraction, and he loses long minutes to watching Patrick’s happiness at sharing this thing he loves so much, the way it burns behind his eyes and under his fair skin, lighting him up inside like David’s plugged him in, charged him up, turned him on. And maybe there’s a different kind of magic here, something that goes far beyond baseball, something David’s starting to feel like he’s allowed to have. </p><p>And as he watches Patrick’s lips curve into another easy smile and his hands move in and out of David’s space as he gestures excitedly about whatever’s happening in the game, all he can think is <em>soon.</em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Can we—” Patrick starts when the game on the screen finally ends, shaking David out of the lazy, contented haze into which he’d settled during the last few innings. </p><p>He glances over to catch Patrick blushing furiously, his mouth twisted to the side as if he could physically hold back whatever question was intended to follow those words. “‘Can we’ what?”</p><p>“No, it’s fine.” He shakes his head definitively and starts to pull his shoes back on. “I shouldn’t ask. You’ve already… You’ve done so much for me today.”</p><p>“It was nothing.” Really, it had been no trouble at all, mostly just money slipped into the right palms, and he’s got plenty of that to spare. </p><p>That tempting mouth slips into a softer curve, one that matches those big, round eyes Patrick turns his way. “No, this is really something, David.”</p><p>“It’s Patrick day,” he says simply, lifting his shoulders in a helpless little shrug. “I told you we could do whatever you want. And the day isn’t over yet, so… ‘can we’ what?”</p><p>There’s a long moment where Patrick just looks at him. Where David just lets him.</p><p>“Play,” he says finally. “Can I show you how?”</p><p>David probably should have expected that to be the answer, and as much as he’s started to—not enjoy, he wouldn’t call it that—begrudgingly tolerate the baseball that has wormed its way into his life recently, he has no desire to actually participate in it. But Patrick’s face is so full of cautious hope and David did just say that they could do whatever he wants, so he keeps the groaning and eye rolls to a minimum and acquiesces. </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>Giddy with excitement, Patrick is halfway back to the dugout before David can even drag himself up off the ground. And then Patrick’s back with balls and a bat and a pair of gloves David refuses to put on, trying to explain how to hold the bat properly, using phrases like <em>choke up</em> and <em>box grip</em> and other bits of nonsense that mean less than nothing to someone who’s come no closer to sports than a few harrowing spin classes over the course of the last thirty years.</p><p>“I don’t know what that means!” David says for at least the third time. He expects Patrick to get frustrated, to decide this isn’t worth it after all, but he just laughs instead.</p><p>“Here. Let me show you.”</p><p>And then Patrick’s hands are on him, shifting his shoulders, tapping his hip, adjusting where his hands are curled around the wood of the bat. He must still be talking, but David can’t hear the words over the thunderous beat of his own heart, the sound of it only growing louder when Patrick steps in close behind him and presses his chest to David’s back, wrapping his arms and hands around his to show him precisely how to swing.</p><p>David misses the heat and the sturdy weight of him as soon as he steps away, and he takes the moment where Patrick’s back is turned as he walks farther out toward the pitcher’s mound to breathe deeply and recompose himself rather than chase after him and tackle him right into the infield grass.</p><p>“Ready?” Patrick asks, plucking up a ball from the bucket at his side.</p><p>“Not at all.”</p><p>The first ball arcs out of Patrick’s hand in this long, slow, underhanded lob and goes sailing right past him.</p><p>“You know you have to actually swing at it in order to hit it, right?”</p><p>“Hey, you don’t swing at every pitch that comes your way!”</p><p>Patrick’s laugh floats across the diamond with the evening breeze. “Fair enough.”</p><p>David does swing at the next one, but he misses it. The one after that too. He swings hard enough at the fourth one that he spins himself around, kicking up a little cloud of red dirt that’s surely going to stain his all-white Stan Smith’s. Patrick throws him at least a half dozen more, calling out reminders in between to relax his grip, to widen his stance, to keep his elbows down, and David half-wonders if Patrick is just fucking with him or if he really is supposed to somehow remember to do all of these things at once.</p><p>He misses enough of them that Patrick eventually has to trot over and collect all the balls lying in the grass behind him so that he has more to throw. David pointedly does not help, and Patrick laughs at that too, like he’s delighted by David’s obstinance rather than put out by it.</p><p>“Tell you what,” he calls as he walks back to his makeshift pitching spot. “If you hit just one ball before this bucket is empty again, I’ll take you out for dessert.”</p><p>“You should have said that the first time!” David calls back.</p><p>It takes three more throws before it happens, but David feels it when it does, the impact of it vibrating up into his arms and shoulders as a delightfully familiar thwack echoes all around him and the ball goes arcing off toward third base. He watches it go, shocked and elated that he did it. He did it. David Rose hit a baseball. And he gets it then. He gets why Patrick would spend his life chasing this weightless, soaring feeling rising in his chest. There should be fireworks, he thinks, to match this riot of color and fire and life flaring up inside him.</p><p>He turns back to Patrick laughing, a joke already on his lips about how he hopes he doesn’t expect him to run the bases, but it’s Patrick who’s running instead, arms in the air in celebration. But it’s not first base that he’s running toward; it’s David, still standing at home plate. </p><p>There’s just enough time for him to register the look of pure elation plastered on Patrick’s face before he’s crowding into David’s space and crashing their mouths together. </p><p>After a surprised, gleeful second, David kisses him back, giving in to every urge he’s had to do exactly this for the last seven weeks, and maybe he doesn’t need fireworks after all. Maybe he already has them, sparking hot and bright in a riot of purples and reds and golds behind his eyelids and under his breastbone. </p><p>When Patrick pulls away, he looks as cracked open as David feels. The soft smile on his lips grows into a grin and then on into a full-bodied laugh, and he slips free of the circle of David’s arms to pace a little circle in the dirt, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, before giving David a look so fond it nearly brings him to his knees.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Patrick shakes his head. “I’ve wanted to do that so many times.”</p><p>The admission washes warmly through David from head to toe. “Why didn’t you?”</p><p>“I’ve, um… I’ve never done that with a guy before.” A blush rises hot and fast in Patrick’s cheeks, which only serves to make him endearingly cuter. </p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“I’ve definitely never kissed my boss either.”</p><p>David scoffs, but he can’t keep a smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So does this mean that we need to take things slow, or…”</p><p>“Oh, I think we’ve gone slow enough, don’t you?” Patrick’s fingers slide into the belt loops on his jeans, tugging him closer until he can kiss him again, all smooth and steady and certain, like they’ve done this a thousand times already. His hands rove upward, landing firm on David’s waist, fingertips digging in through the soft weight of his sweater as he presses in more, and David’s heart kicks faster against the confines of his chest.</p><p>This time when they pull apart again, it’s David who laughs, suddenly remembering Patrick’s bet. “I believe I was promised dessert.”</p><p>Patrick’s smile takes over his whole face, pure joy glowing warm and gorgeous beneath his skin. “We could go for ice cream,” he offers, leaning in to kiss David once more. He stops though, just short of his goal, his breath ghosting temptingly across David’s mouth. “Or...”</p><p>It takes everything in David not to close the gap between them. “Or?” he asks, and Patrick’s eyes and grin both fill with a wild and wicked kind of delight.</p><p>“How do you feel about breakfast?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note6" name="note6"></a><sup>6</sup> Hitting for the cycle is when a player hits a single, double, triple, and home run all in one game. [<a href="#return6">▲</a>]</p><p><a id="note7" name="note7"></a><sup>7</sup> A foul tip is a ball that skips off the bat and is then immediately caught by the catcher. It counts as a strike. Retiring the side means getting the third out of that half inning.[<a href="#return7">▲</a>]</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>This chapter sees Patrick talking about the designated hitter rule, which allows teams to designate someone as a batter in place of the pitcher so that the pitcher does not actually have to bat. In a normal MLB season (not this 2020 bizarro season), half of the teams—those in the American League, who adopted the rule in 1973—use a DH, while the half in the National League do not. (In the NL, pitchers have to bat, just like all their teammates do.) Pitchers are often weaker hitters than their teammates, and using or not using a DH certainly changes the strategy of the game.</p><p>Most baseball fans have a strong opinion on the DH, one way or the other, and here’s mine: Patrick, who has spent his career playing for AL-affiliated teams and thus been swayed by their opinions, is wrong. The DH rule is unnecessary and runs entirely counter to the idea of developing well-rounded players, like those necessary in every other position on the field. Pitchers should have to bat just like everyone else on their damn team.</p><p> </p><p>I wrote the Patrick day bit of this long before season 6 aired. Thanks for confirming my ideas, Dan.</p><p> </p><p>Last but certainly not least, let me just say that the final scene of this chapter was, perhaps unsurprisingly, the very first thing I thought up for this fic. I could see it so clearly, and I knew then that it would take a slow burn to get them there. So thanks to all of you for your patience with them (and me) on the journey to get them to this point and beyond. 💗💗💗</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. rainout</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Patrick kisses precisely the way he plays baseball: with skill and confidence and the kind of casual ease that comes with doing something you enjoy, just for the sake of it. </p><p>The only problem with that is when he stops, pulling away as David whines. He crawls out from under the sheets with the rudest chuckle, runs a hand through his sex-and-sleep-mussed hair, and pulls clothes from the dresser on the far wall. The worn, old University of Louisville tee and the boxer briefs both stretch beautifully across all that lean muscle in his chest and stomach and the much thicker, sturdier muscles of his ass and thighs, and David lets Patrick catch him staring, enjoying the way the blush that rises in his cheeks spreads enticingly down below his collar and out of sight.</p><p>“Come back to bed,” David says, voice hoarse with both sleep and promise.</p><p>“It’s a game day,” Patrick replies as if that’s an answer, digging through another drawer. “Besides I promised you breakfast, and I can’t cook from bed.”</p><p>David teases a hand through the tidy line of dark hair that runs down across his lower belly and disappears below the blankets pooled around his hips, letting his fingers slip beneath them to where he’s half hard. “Breakfast can wait.” </p><p>Patrick’s head swivels toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. “David Rose, did you just turn down food in favor of sex? Should I be flattered?”</p><p>“No,” he says, but he can’t fully tuck his smile back behind his teeth, and hints of it slip out at the corners of his lips. “It’s just that there’s no wrong time of day for breakfast food, so there’s really no reason we need to be out of bed at…” A glance at the clock radio on Patrick’s nightstand makes his entire body lurch in horror. “Seven thirty?! Why are we even awake right now?”</p><p>“It’s a game day,” Patrick says again, resuming his search and finally coming up victorious with a pair of socks in hand. “And I have a routine.”</p><p>“And I take it this routine doesn’t involve me sucking you off again and then going back to sleep until a much more reasonable hour?”</p><p>There’s that blush again, deeper this time, but despite David putting on his sexiest pout, Patrick only laughs and shakes his head, already turning to go. He stops in the doorway just long enough to give David one last look, wistful but resolved. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll make pancakes.”</p><p>David waits until he’s well down the hall, before he lets the smile that’s been threatening to form finally break free, pulling up the sheets until he can bury himself beneath them. It’s new, this feeling welling up inside him—this overwhelming joy. He’s never felt this way after spending the night with someone before, but then again, he’s never spent the night with Patrick Brewer before either. </p><p>And it had been a good night. </p><p>If David lets himself be truly honest, it had been an amazing, fantastic, unbelievable, earth-shattering, reality-altering kind of night. He’d finally gotten his hands and his mouth on all the parts of Patrick he’s been admiring and imagining from afar all these weeks, had gotten to know the squeeze of those thighs around his shoulders, the pull of those hands in his hair, the stretch of those lips around his cock. It had all been even better than he’d imagined, but the best part of the night had been the things that he couldn’t—the things he’d never <em>let himself</em> imagine. The comforting weight of Patrick’s arm across his waist as he curled around David in the dark. The tickle of a soft <em>good night</em> whispered against the curve of his shoulder. The safe, steady sound of his breath as he slowly drifted off. David had never fallen asleep in someone else’s bed so easily before. He’d never had anyone make him feel so much like it’s where he belongs.</p><p>The smell of bacon finally rouses him from his happy little cocoon, and he pulls on a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt from his overnight bag. After a quick brush of his teeth and a half-hearted attempt to rake his hair into something resembling its usual shape, he follows the short hallway back toward the front of the house. Patrick hadn’t given him the grand tour last night—they’d had other goals in mind—so he ignores the sound of Patrick humming in the kitchen and takes a chance to look around the small living room.</p><p>Like the bedroom and bathroom, it’s more on the utilitarian end of the interior design spectrum, most of the space taken up by a simple grey sofa and a television. In the corner by the front window, there’s a guitar case, which David tries his best to ignore, though there isn’t much else to draw his attention. The room is neat and tidy, though perhaps more from disuse than rigorous and regular cleaning, which he supposes makes sense for as much time as Patrick spends at the ballpark and on the road.</p><p>Above the fireplace, however, is a little dash of personality, one of the only places he’s seen in the house so far that seems to definitively say <em>Patrick Brewer lives here</em>.</p><p>A small canvas painted with a familiar beach scene leans against the wall, disrupting the dingy outline of whatever the previous resident had hung here, and David shakes his head fondly at both the memory and Patrick apparently deeming the final product of their wine and paint night as worthy of display. More interesting though is the orderly line of display cases stretched across the rest of the mantel, four glass cubes each containing a baseball set atop a mirrored plinth. They’re well-dusted, spotless and sparkling in the morning light, and he runs a finger thoughtfully across the edge of one, wondering what memories it might hold. What moments in Patrick’s life have been important enough to keep this way, protected and cared for but proudly set out for anyone to see?</p><p>“That’s the first homerun I ever hit as a kid.”</p><p>He turns, ready to apologize for snooping, but there’s a warm and open look on Patrick’s face as he leans against the kitchen doorway, a spatula in hand. “How old were you?” David asks instead.</p><p>“Nine. I was playing up, and my mom was so nervous about it she almost pulled me out of the season. She thought I was gonna get hurt.” The memory glows beneath his skin. “I think I hit that one just to prove to her that I belonged there.”</p><p>David doesn’t even try to hide his smile at the thought of nine-year-old Patrick stubbornly rising to the challenge. Not much has changed, he thinks, remembering the way Patrick had pressed him into the mattress last night. “Tell me about another one?”</p><p>Patrick pushes off the doorway and crosses to his side. “Which one?” he asks, pointing at them in turn. “First game I ever went to? The cycle in college? First minor league hit?”</p><p>All of them, he wants to say. He wants to hear every story Patrick’s willing to tell, but for now he reaches past the cases to point to a loose ball on the far end. Perhaps it’s something recent he hasn’t had a chance to properly display yet, or maybe it isn’t actually important at all, but David’s curious either way. “This one.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s, um, that’s not from a game,” Patrick says. He reaches out to turn it, carefully, so that the laces are more precisely lined up with those on the balls in the cases, his fingers and his gaze lingering there long after he makes it perfect.</p><p>“So just a random ball then?” David asks, though it clearly isn’t true.</p><p>“No, not exactly.”</p><p>David isn’t naturally a patient person, but with Patrick he’s starting to learn the value of waiting. And eventually Patrick looks away from the ball, gives him a tender flash of a smile, and rewards him with more of an answer.</p><p>“It’s from July.”</p><p>His first thought is the All-Star Game. But Patrick just told him that it isn’t from a game at all, and either way, he’d given that ball to David. What else had happened in July that would have been important enough for Patrick to keep? David hadn’t even come to Schitt’s Creek for that first game until right at the end of the month; they hadn’t been talking then the way they have these last few weeks, and he tries to remember if Patrick has told him anything since then about big games or important plays that might have happened back then. </p><p>He comes up empty, shaking his head, and Patrick gives him a strange little huff of a laugh. Embarrassed maybe. Or nervous, though David can’t imagine why he would be.</p><p>“It’s— It’s from the party. The All-Star party.”</p><p>David’s next breath is sharp and loud in the quiet space between them. There’d been a whole bucket full of balls that night, Patrick launching each one out into the distant dark. Except for one. One ball that he’d missed. One ball that had bounced and rolled back toward the near edge of the field, coming to a stop at David’s feet. There’d been a blush then, and a smile, and a back and forth that lit David up in a way he hadn’t quite understood. And then David had pressed the ball into Patrick’s palm with a definitive <em>good night</em>, Patrick’s self-assured <em>see you Wednesday</em> following him back toward the house.</p><p>“You kept it.” He has to clear his throat, his emotions squeezing around it, threatening to choke him. “Why?”</p><p>“I wanted to remember it.” Patrick shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal, like he doesn’t want to make it one. “I wanted to remember yo—”</p><p>The end of the word gets caught in the press of David’s lips, and he swallows it down, lets it warm him from the inside. </p><p>When Patrick had confessed last night that he’d been wanting to kiss David for weeks, he’d assumed it was an exaggeration, or at least that the impulse stopped there at the physical. But this is so much more than he could have imagined. Patrick kept the ball from the night they met. Kept it and put it here beside these special, happy memories, like it’s worthy of the same protection, the same reverence, so he holds Patrick close and kisses him until they’re both breathless.</p><p>“Shit. The pancakes.” Patrick pulls away suddenly, laughing as David tries to draw him back in. He concedes to drop one more kiss to David’s cheek before going to deal with the burning smell coming from the kitchen, and David takes a moment to shake his head and recompose himself before joining him.</p><p>He settles onto a barstool at the island where a steaming cup of coffee already waits for him, and before long Patrick is turning off the burner and handing him a plate with a short stack of unburnt pancakes and a few strips of bacon. He’s already three bites in before he realizes that Patrick isn’t joining him; instead he’s got a hip pressed against the counter and the tiniest smile on his lips as he watches David press his fork down through the stack of pancakes once more.</p><p>“What?” he asks, suddenly self-conscious.</p><p>“Nothing, I just—” Patrick rubs at the back of his neck, blushing yet again. It’s somehow more endearing every time he does it. “I like seeing you like this.”</p><p>“Hungry?”</p><p>“At home. Here.”</p><p>Patrick is on a roll this morning, like he’s made it his mission to break David down piece by piece, and he takes another bite of his pancakes to buy some time to put himself back together once again.</p><p>Then he catches a glimpse of Patrick’s feet, and the moment comes screeching to a halt. He gestures toward the floor with his fork. “What, um, what’s happening down there?”</p><p>Patrick doesn’t even have to look down to see what he’s asking about. He simply smirks. “No matching socks before a game.”</p><p>“So you— You dress like this… every day?” David continues to eye his feet warily, worried that the horrid mix of burgundy and aqua might somehow attack if he isn’t careful. </p><p>“Every game day, yes.”</p><p>“Oh god. Um. W-why?”</p><p>Patrick’s laugh is bright and buoyant. “Routine.”</p><p>“Right.” David finally manages to peel his gaze away from Patrick’s feet and focus on a piece of bacon instead. “So you get up at the crack of dawn. You put on… those. Please tell me the horrors end there.”</p><p>“Depends. How do you feel about green tea?” </p><p>“Depends. What are you doing with it?”</p><p>Patrick picks up the mug beside him on the counter, holding it up pointedly. “Drinking it. What else would I do with it?”</p><p>“I don’t think you want me to answer that.”</p><p>A bemused frown twists at Patrick’s mouth, but it slips away again as he crosses to David’s side and presses another quick kiss to his cheek. He does it like it’s natural, like all this casual affection isn’t going to kill David little by little: death by a thousand touches. “I need a shower before I head to the field, and no,” he adds, catching the flash of interest in David’s eyes, “I don’t need company.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, okay.” David sets down his fork again. Now this is more familiar. He’s been in this part of the situation plenty of times, and he knows when he’s being asked to leave. “Let me just grab my bag, and I’ll get out of here.”</p><p>“No, no,” Patrick protests, settling a hand on David’s shoulder and squeezing. “Stay as long as you want. I mean it.” There’s something softly pleading in his gaze, and David has to look away before he’s tempted to give in. But the last thing he wants to do is overstay his welcome and turn his first morning here into his last. </p><p>“Thanks,” he says gently. “But I should at least, you know, go get a change of clothes and all, back at the hotel. And I wouldn’t want to mess up your routine.”</p><p>“Oh. Okay.” Patrick’s hand slips off his shoulder. “You’ll be at the game though, right?”</p><p>The uncertainty in his tone clenches around David’s heart, and he slips out of his seat to pull Patrick in for a long, lingering kiss. “I wouldn’t miss it,” he says when he finally pulls away, and he’s not even surprised to realize it’s true.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Games, it turns out, are even more interesting when you’ve seen what the star catcher looks like beneath his uniform, when you can accurately recall the solid strength of his flexed quads each time he crouches behind the plate, when you know that the mess of his hair as he pulls off his helmet is nothing at all compared to the way it looks with his hands fisted in it as he writhes down against the fingers you have buried inside him. It’s distracting and arousing and terrible and more than a little bit wonderful, and David thinks that it’s certainly something he could get used to.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Patrick’s breath is hot and damp in the curve of David’s neck, teeth dragging across the exposed ridge of his collarbone, as he presses David harder into the stretch of wall just inside his living room door. His eagerness to celebrate the Bears’ win, to which he’d contributed an RBI double, is evident in the hardness rocking against David’s hip and two greedy hands sliding up beneath his sweater, down across the curve of his ass, scooping under his thighs and lifting until David’s legs come up to wrap around his back. </p><p>He moans as Patrick grinds into him, his whole body on fire. David had known Patrick was strong, but god, he hadn’t imagined he could hold him up like this, and if he isn’t careful, he’ll come before he can even get his pants off, undone at the mere thought that Patrick could fuck him like this, pinned against the wall with that beautiful cock pumping into him, sweaty and panting, all his gorgeous strength on full, glorious display. </p><p>“Fuck,” he gasps into Patrick’s mouth, tasting the lewd grin that blossoms there. </p><p>“If you want,” Patrick replies, carrying him across the room to throw him down on the sofa instead. David bounces against the cushions, and as Patrick licks the surprised laughter from his mouth, he can’t remember the last time sex felt this fun.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>They manage to make it to the cafe for hot dogs the next night but Patrick can’t seem to stop staring at David’s mouth. They barely get the car doors closed before David is pulling on the lever for Patrick’s seat so that he can remind him what else his mouth can do.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>He’s never been a morning person, but David is starting to think that mornings might be his favorite time of day. Because each one he wakes up in Patrick’s arms, and even though the hour is far too early and soon Patrick will get up and start his day, for these few minutes there’s no place else he’d rather be. </p><p>The days are good, too, of course. The Bears are on a winning streak, which makes the games even more thrilling, that electric buzz in the air growing louder with every hit and every strikeout. And then each night they go back to Patrick’s house and fuck each other senseless. David isn’t sure if it’s the long lead-up of all these weeks spent in each other’s company or Patrick’s preternatural ability to read every twitch of David’s body the same way he can read a game or just this strange spell that seems to have swirled up around them since the night David first found a beautiful man hitting baseballs alone in the dark, but he doesn’t want it to end any time soon. And though he knows it inevitably will, he also knows it will absolutely have been worth every single minute.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Stevie texts, and she texts some more. And when he doesn’t respond, she somehow gets Alexis in on it, too. At least Stevie pretends to be texting about the store most of the time; Alexis on the other hand has no problem insinuating herself immediately and obviously into his personal life, asking all about his new boyfriend—a word neither he nor Patrick have said—and inviting herself and a friend to the game on Saturday, insisting that David take them all out for dinner so that she can meet Patrick for herself.</p><p>David ignores them both because he just wants to live a little longer in this bubble where he doesn’t have to think about the world outside of Schitt’s Creek, the world that extends beyond this week, where he has to go back to an empty apartment in the city and Patrick has to get on a bus to Pennsylvania for the last few games of the regular season. </p><p>After that, the postseason is a possibility, of course, as the Bears are within striking distance of the top of the league, and that at least would give David an excuse to come back to town for a bit. But what happens if the team doesn’t make it, or even if they do, what happens when the championship is over? They haven’t discussed it, and frankly David is too terrified of the answer to even bring it up. Because baseball is a sport built on long summers, rising with the first heat of April and wrapping up in the crisp autumn chill, and what if this thing between them is too, destined to dry out and crumple and drift away in the breeze?</p><p>David knows their days together are limited—his relationships always are—but he doesn’t want to think about the end until he has to, so he lets his messages go unanswered and allows himself to live the fantasy where he somehow gets to keep all this for just a little bit longer.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Steely rain is sliding down the windows of David’s hotel room in steady sheets as he tries to decide which sweater, if any, he’s willing to put at the mercy of the elements, or if there’s a way he can get out of going to tonight’s game and thus altogether avoid sacrificing his knitwear. He’s just pulling an older, neoprene Neil Barrett he’d brought as a backup to a backup outfit out of the tiny hotel closet when his phone vibrates in his pocket.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header3"></span>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> Date night?</span><br/>
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<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Just gonna skip the game? I feel like your boss might frown on that</span><br/>
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<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I have it on good authority that my boss isn’t actually that big of a baseball fan.</span><br/>
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<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> And no, they’ve already called it because of the rain. That means a double header on Saturday now, but we have tonight to ourselves. Let me take you out.</span>
</p>
</div><p>David looks over at the rain still pouring across the windows and thinks he’d really rather stay in. Maybe he could even convince Patrick to come here so that David won’t have to go out in it at all. Maybe Patrick could wear that pale blue button-up, the one that’s paper thin, and knock on David’s door, soaked through with rain, the translucent fabric clinging deliciously to the curves and planes of his arms and shoulders and chest, David peeling it slowly off of him as he—</p><p>His phone vibrates in his hand again, and he jumps so hard he nearly drops it.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Patrick:</em></span> I want to take you on a proper date. Please.</span>
</p>
</div><p>And then there’s a picture of his face, mouth pouting ridiculously, eyes big and round and shining, and how is David supposed to say no to that? </p><p>There is something appealing in the idea, he supposes. Even if they’ll likely just end up at the cafe like usual, there are far worse ways to spend the evening than playing footsie under the table in the middle of the dinner rush, like normal people. </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> What time are you picking me up?</span>
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</div><p>He puts the sweatshirt back in the closet and reaches for a floral, wool McQueen instead. If he’s going to do this, he might as well do it right.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The knock at the door comes precisely at 6, and David manages to tuck his grin back inside his mouth before he opens the door to find Patrick there in a midnight blue blazer with tiny raindrops scattered across the shoulders like stars. He looks David up and down from under his long lashes, smirking as David does the same before stepping aside to invite him in.</p><p>“This is for you,” Patrick says as he produces a single white ranunculus from behind his back with a bashful grin, and David’s surprise mixes with pleasure that he’s apparently not the only one who has decided to do this whole date night thing properly. There’s no vase here to put it in of course, so for now he plugs the sink and fills it with tepid water and leaves the stem tilted into the bowl. He takes the moment out of Patrick’s view to pull in a deep breath and blow it slowly out again. They’ve spent every free moment together this week—this shouldn’t feel that different and new—and he tries to shake some of this nervousness out through his hands before he steps back out into the room.</p><p>“Shall we?”</p><p>“After you.”</p><p>The rain has slacked off to no more than a drizzle, thank god, but still Patrick insists on getting the car and pulling it up under the hotel’s awning so that David can get in. He rolls his eyes as hard as he can to try to hide the affection he can feel shining in the corners. He isn’t quite sure he succeeds, from the way Patrick’s lips go all tilty at the sight, but Patrick is at least nice enough not to call him out.</p><p>When they pass the cafe without pulling into the parking lot, David’s brows pop up. “Is there a hot new restaurant in town I’ve failed to notice, or is this going to be some kind of foodless date? Because you should know that I don’t put out if you don’t buy me dinner first.”</p><p>Patrick’s grin is a wicked tease. “And here I thought you were a sure thing. Guess we should turn back now.” He even flips on his turn signal and slows down as if he’s going to turn around in the next driveway, and David slaps a gentle backhand to his arm, laughing.</p><p>“Don’t you dare.”</p><p>Wherever they’re headed is apparently not in town, as they pull onto the highway, heading west. David’s learned that asking about their destination won’t get him any real answers, so he just enjoys the easy conversation as the miles pass them by, and eventually they turn off at the exit for Elm Valley, finally coming to a stop in the parking lot of a strip mall. For a moment, he thinks it’s a joke, but Patrick turns off the car, rubs a thumb steadily back and forth across the calluses on his palm, and looks over at David the way he had outside the Graffitied Grape.</p><p>“I know it doesn’t look like much—” he starts, but David cuts him off with a kiss, quick and soft but certain.</p><p>No, a restaurant tucked between a dry cleaner and an insurance agency, its big cursive letters that spell out <i>Panucci’s</i> beginning to peel from the windows, is not exactly the kind of date night hot spot that David is used to. But Patrick isn’t the kind of date he’s used to either, and so far every minute they’ve spent together has been better than every other date he’s ever had. So he leans in, as his mother had once told him to do, and climbs out of the car before he can change his mind.</p><p>“Let’s go. I’m starving.”</p><p>Patrick’s laugh is sweet, echoing off the pavement all around them as he follows David inside.</p><p>Inside is—well, David was right that it isn’t the kind of place he’d usually frequent, as evidenced by not only the general decor and ambiance, but also the large pack of children dressed in some kind of sports uniforms, yelling and laughing as they crowd around a bank of pinball machines in the far corner. He takes a deep breath and lets the welcome pressure of Patrick’s hand against the curve of his spine lead him forward to the counter.</p><p>The menu hanging overhead is a cluttered mess, and David doesn’t know where to begin, even without the bored teen at the register giving them an impatient look. There’s pasta and salad and sandwiches and paninis, bruschetta and seafood and soups and calzones. It’s nearly as bad as the cafe, but before he can take in enough of the over-large menu to decide what to order, Patrick nudges him with his shoulder.</p><p>“Trust me?” </p><p>David wants to say no—he doesn’t trust anyone more than himself when it comes to food. He doesn’t trust anyone when it comes to a lot of things actually. It’s a skill he’s learned the hard way. But Patrick’s asking like it’s easy, like he can just choose to hand it over as simply as he might pull out his black card at a bar. It isn’t that easy—maybe it never will be—but David looks at that hopeful, pleading face and finds that it isn’t quite as hard as he thought either.</p><p>He nods and Patrick smiles, dimpled and radiant, fitting for some gesture much grander than David letting him order dinner without his input. A red plastic cup is pressed into David’s hands, and Patrick aims him toward the soda machine against the side wall and the tables beyond. </p><p>“Go find us a seat.”</p><p>Soda in hand, he chooses a booth in the corner between the door and the little arcade full of rowdy pre-teens. There’s a dusty, old, wall-mounted jukebox hanging over the table, and the vinyl, red and white check tablecloth is still damp from where it’s recently been wiped down. It’s tacky against his fidgety hands, so he holds them carefully in his lap instead while he waits for Patrick to join him.</p><p>“Do you get the impression we might be a little overdressed?” Patrick asks as he finally slides into the seat across from him. </p><p>“I don’t know,” David says with a wry twist of his lips. “Strip mall Italian does just scream dinner jacket policy.”</p><p>“I know, right? Good thing I came prepared.”</p><p>“Indeed.” David takes advantage of having Patrick directly across from him to give him another good look, gaze brushing across the breadth of his shoulders, the stretch of the jacket sleeves around his arms, the small vee between the points of his shirt collar. The skin there is gently tanned from countless days in the harsh summer sun, the color washing down from his throat into that space where he wears his uniform shirt unbuttoned without a shirt underneath. David wants to put his tongue against it, to lick along that softly bronzed sliver until he can differentiate the taste of him there from the milky paleness that spreads secretly across the rest of his chest. When his eyes find Patrick’s again, he’s looking back at him like he knows what David’s thinking, and he gives him a quick little wink that promises they can explore the impulse later.</p><p>The teen from the counter materializes with her still-present scowl, dropping a large rectangular pan onto the table between them, and David’s whole body relaxes at the familiar sight.</p><p>“You brought me all the way out here for pizza?” he asks, not disappointed, just curious, because if Patrick just wanted pizza they could have ordered delivery from the chain place by the hotel and then left it mostly uneaten in favor of devouring each other.</p><p>“It’s not just any pizza. It’s the best pizza,” Patrick says, dropping a napkin onto his lap.</p><p>“Mm, I’ll be the judge of that.”</p><p>He pulls a slice from the pan, tapping a fingernail against the bottom of the crust to get a feel for the texture of it—crisp but not hard—before he takes a bite. It’s got more sauce than he’d like, but it’s pleasantly acidic, balanced nicely with the sweetness of the Italian sausage and the earthiness of the mushrooms, and the hot mozzarella pulls into gooey strings he has to break off with his fingers. It’s not the best pizza he’s had in his life, but it’s honestly not far off, comfortingly simple and hearty, the kind of thing he imagines a mother might make from a family recipe handwritten on an old, yellowed index card with no real measurements and everything done by feel. That is, if one has a mother inclined to mix together anything more than a martini and a klonopin and call it dinner.</p><p>David realizes suddenly that Patrick is watching him with big, curious eyes, waiting for his verdict, and he smiles around another bite. “It’s very good,” he agrees once he swallows, and Patrick’s shoulders knock back down into their usual place.</p><p>From there, the pizza disappears in steady bites between easy conversation. Somewhere along the way, Patrick drops an open hand on the tabletop, and David places his palm into the space that’s waiting for it, letting Patrick hold his hand through the rest of dinner. The brush of his thumb across David’s knuckles is as distracting as it is soothing, but he only lets go long enough to wipe his napkin across his mouth before finding Patrick’s hand again.</p><p>When they’re done, Patrick slips out of the booth with a mischievous grin and heads back up to the register. Watching him go, David realizes suddenly that the restaurant is much emptier than it had been when they’d arrived, only one other couple left finishing their meal on the other end of the room, and out beyond the front windows the world has faded into inky darkness. </p><p>At least the rain seems to have stopped.</p><p>Patrick comes back with a stack of quarters, and David worries that he means to use them in the now empty arcade, but instead he slips into the seat at David’s side, a long line of sturdy heat as he presses into his space, and slides a quarter over in front of him. </p><p>“You get first pick.” Patrick nods toward the jukebox on the wall that David isn’t even sure actually works, but he scoots closer anyway to see the titles as he flips through the selections, delighted when Patrick follows, draping himself over David’s shoulder in his efforts to watch him choose. There’s nothing in the catalog past about 1992, and sadly the only Mariah option is “Emotions,” which feels a little more lyrically forthcoming than he really wants to be. A lot of the songs are like that, actually, and with Patrick pressed so close against him, David is hyper-aware of the potential meaning that can be read into every possible choice. Finally, after flipping through the whole list three times with Patrick chuckling low in his ear, he makes a selection, and the harmonies of Wilson Phillips burst to life throughout the restaurant. </p><p>He expects Patrick to offer some commentary on his choice, but he simply lets the music wash over them until dessert arrives in the form of yet another pizza, this one sprinkled with chocolate chips and a buttery, crumbly topping that’s been perfectly browned in the oven. The whole thing is sweet and indulgent and David would live in it if he could, Patrick laughing with delight when he says so. They trade song choices and, occasionally, rich, sugary kisses as they work their way through a few slices. Patrick goes with Bonnie Raitt’s “Something to Talk About,” which gives David the courage to choose Prince’s “Kiss.” They follow it up with “Take My Breath Away” and “Time of My Life” and “The Best” and, when David is feeling particularly brave, “I Wanna Dance With Somebody.”</p><p>Patrick drops his last quarter into the slot and holds out a hand when he’s made his final selection, and the first notes of the synth-pop track wash over them.</p><p>“Dance with me.”</p><p>The restaurant is empty now; even the surly-faced teen has disappeared to somewhere in the back, so David lets himself be pulled to his feet with minimal resistance. They fit themselves together as easily here as they do in bed, David’s arms draped around Patrick’s neck, Patrick’s wrapped around his waist, and David hides his smile in the kiss he presses to Patrick’s temple.</p><p>“Isn’t this <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wxyN3z9PL4">the song from <i>Mannequin</i></a>?” he asks once he pays enough attention to recognize it, and Patrick shrugs.</p><p>“No idea. Haven’t seen it.”</p><p>“Okay, we really do need to work on your romcom knowledge.”</p><p>Patrick takes a deep breath and his feet falter a little from their steady swaying. “Well, maybe after the season’s over,” he says, and David has to close his eyes for a moment to stop all his hopes from spilling right out of them. “I thought, um, that maybe I could— that I could come stay with you. For a bit. Help out with the new store. If you want that, I mean.”</p><p>“You don’t have to do that,” David says because he feels like he should, though his heart beats a rapid, ready <em>yes</em> against his ribs.</p><p>“I like you, David,” he says, the words stripped bare. “Honestly, I like you so much it scares me a little.” He glances hesitantly toward the floor, and David brushes a thumb through the hair at the nape of his neck, giving him the moment to steady himself. Finally he looks up again, all that sincerity shining out from his eyes like a beacon. “I’d just like to keep spending time with you, if that’s okay with you.” He spreads his hands wider across David’s back then, like he’s trying to fit as much of him between them as he can, and it’s an impulse David can understand. He wants to hold on to this, too: this moment, this feeling, this beautiful man just asking him for a chance to keep this for a little longer. </p><p>“I’d like that, too.”</p><p>Patrick’s smile blossoms like wildflowers after spring rain, slowly and then all at once, a riot of joy splashed across his face. He pulls David in for a long kiss and then keeps holding him just as close, crooning softly along with the song as he tucks his face into David’s neck.</p><p><em>And we can build this dream together</em><br/>
<em>Standing strong forever</em><br/>
<em>Nothing's gonna stop us now</em><br/>
<em>And if this world runs out of lovers</em><br/>
<em>We'll still have each other</em><br/>
<em>Nothing's gonna stop us</em><br/>
<em>Nothing's gonna stop us now</em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>In the golden lamplight of Patrick’s bedroom, they undress each other slowly, as reverent and careful as if it were the first time. David peels the jacket from Patrick’s shoulders and then slips each shirt button free, getting his lips on that glimpse of skin he’s been eyeing all night, tasting the salt and heat of him in the dip of his throat, all along his neck and jaw, in the bare, tender space behind the lobe of his ear. Patrick groans when David sets his teeth against his skin, pressing and dragging them over the thumping tattoo of his pulse, so David does it again at the hinge of his jaw, and again, lower, along the stretch of his neck, drawing that sound out again and again, wanting nothing more than to keep hearing it for as long as possible.</p><p>Patrick turns to find his mouth then, opening readily to let his tongue slip in as warm hands find their way beneath his sweater and gently pull it over his head, returning to rove the planes of his chest and stomach and back, fingers brushing through the soft line of hair on his belly to dip teasingly below the waistband of his jeans. </p><p>“What do you want?” David asks when they’re finally lying skin-to-skin on the bed, and he can’t stop touching Patrick, tracing over every bony rise and muscled curve, kissing over the goosebumps that prickle up in his wake. </p><p>Greedy hands drag him up so that Patrick can lick hot and long and slow into his mouth, and David feels like he’s being consumed. Like he wants to be.</p><p>“What do you want?” he asks again, pressing the words breathlessly into Patrick’s cheeks and nose and brow and chin. “Patrick, what do you want?” He hovers over him, nose-to-nose, those big, brown eyes glittering in the half-light, and lets himself hope that when Patrick says he wants to keep this longer, he means it the way that David does. </p><p>That he means always.</p><p>It should frighten David to think about. He’s never wanted anyone this way before, and he knows it’s only been days, but he already can’t imagine the rest of his life without Patrick in it. And he doesn’t really have the words for it—or maybe he’s just afraid to call it what it is—but he knows the feel of it now the way he knows the beat of his own heart, steady and ever-present beneath his ribs, knows that this is where he’s been headed for weeks. Knows that maybe this is where he’s always been headed, his whole life spent on rough seas, tossed and turned about but always recharting a course to here and now. </p><p>To Patrick.</p><p>“What do you want?” he whispers into the bare space between them, and Patrick brushes his answer against David’s eager lips.</p><p>“You,” he says, achingly plain. “David, I want all of you.”</p><p>David has to kiss him then, a soft ghost of breath across his lips to fortify his own honesty.</p><p>“You already have me.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Patrick drinking green tea before games is a nod to my all-time favorite sports AU, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/744242/chapters/1386629">The Bang and the Clatter</a> by earlgreytea68, a BBC <i>Sherlock</i> fic from 2013 in which John making Sherlock green tea becomes part of their pre-game superstitions. If you enjoy baseball and the Dynamic, I highly suggest giving it a read—I honestly don’t think you even really need to know anything about <i>Sherlock</i> to enjoy it; it could basically be an original novel. It’s got secret baseball boyfriends and all the goodness that comes with that: the media getting a little too observant, “dating” other people as a cover, the drama of on-field injuries, the tension that comes with hiding something that makes you so happy. And then on top of all that it does an incredibly beautiful job of capturing the magic of baseball. I cannot recommend it enough.</p><p> </p><p>As always, thank you to Claire for putting up with me agonizing over what song they were going to dance to in this chapter. It took ages before I finally decided on Starship’s “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now,” which as David mentions is indeed in the movie <i>Mannequin</i> and was actually nominated for the Academy Award for Best Original Song.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. left on base</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There’s a shrill, piercing sound coming from somewhere in the dark, and, grumbling, David buries his head further into the pillow in an effort to make it stop.</p><p>It doesn’t, and finally enough neurons start to fire for him to realize that it’s a ringing phone. He fumbles blindly toward the sound, pulling a phone from the pocket of a pair of jeans on the floor and barely comprehending the <i>Johnny Rose</i> on the screen before he answers it, already trying to burrow back down into the warmth of the sheets and the comfort of Patrick’s arms.</p><p>“Dad, ’s thmiddle of the nigh’.”</p><p>“D-David?” His father sounds… off, and every nerve in David’s body jolts to attention. He’s back out of the bed, already pulling on his underwear and halfway done running through his mental <i>Alexis is in trouble</i> checklist—fuck, he probably doesn’t have any colored contacts left after that mix-up in Vientiane in April—when his father clears his throat. “I didn’t, uh, I didn’t realize that you, well— that you were, shall we say, engaged this evening, or I—”</p><p>“Oh my god, Dad, just spit it out. Which embassy do I need to call?” </p><p>A sleepy voice mumbles in the darkness behind him, “David, w’s wrong?” and he flaps a distracted hand in Patrick’s direction in an effort to tell him to just go back to sleep.</p><p>“No, no,” Johnny says on the other end of the line with a stilted chuckle. “It’s not your sister. It’s— Well. I was actually calling for, uh, Patrick. Patrick Brewer.”</p><p>The realization crashes over David in a tidal wave of relief and embarrassment, and he collapses back down onto the bed. Alexis isn’t in trouble, and that unfamiliar sound that had woken him hadn’t been his own ringtone; it had been Patrick’s. He doesn’t know why Patrick or his father would have the other’s number, but a glance at the screen confirms it: <em>Johnny Rose</em> is there in big, white letters against the plain background, not <em>Dad (Cell)</em> or the picture David had gleefully snapped of him yelling at Alexis for taking the plane to Vail on Opening Day a few years ago.</p><p>“Is, uh, is Patrick there? With you?” Johnny asks. “Or if you’re, you know… occupied with—”</p><p>“Do <em>not</em> finish that sentence,” David demands and shoves the phone toward Patrick, who fumbles to grab it in his confusion.</p><p>“H-hello?”</p><p>David wilts back into the pillows, ignoring the too-loud sound of his father’s voice, tinny and far away, through the speaker now pressed to Patrick’s ear. Instead, he breathes deeply, hands against his diaphragm, feeling his lungs fill and empty beneath his fingers as he tries to ebb the flow of adrenaline that has surged up in his veins. <em>Alexis is fine,</em> he tells himself. Alexis is fine. Alexis is fine.</p><p>“Seriously?” Patrick thrusts out a hand to clutch at David’s arm, and David rolls over to find him wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open. “Okay,” he says eventually. “Okay. Thank you, Mr. Rose. Thank you! I-I won’t let you down.”</p><p>After he taps the button to end the call, he keeps staring at the darkened screen as if there might be more it has to say. It remains silent, and just as David begins to wonder if his father has somehow broken Patrick, he collapses back against the sheets in huffs of hysterical laughter, the whole bed shaking with it as the sound fills the room, buoyant and free.</p><p>“I’m,” he starts as he tries to catch his breath. “David.” Those two glittering eyes find his in the darkness. “I’m a Blue Jay.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“They’re calling me up.” He gasps and sobers, as if just realizing the reality of the words now that he’s said them aloud. “Marshall went out tonight, torn ligaments in his ankle. They need another catcher on the roster. David, they’re calling me up.” And then Patrick’s full weight is on top of him, peppering him with kisses and laughter and more happiness than David can possibly bear.</p><p>It’s everything Patrick has spent years working toward, and David knows now how hard these chances are to come by. “You did it,” he breathes against the stretch of Patrick’s shoulder, wrapping him up tight. “I’m so proud of you.”</p><p>He is. And if there’s a tiny piece of him that worries about what this means for them, just a little splinter of his heart that’s already attached to the idea of Patrick in his bed and in his store and in his everyday life, he doesn’t let it show. <em>It’s just a delay,</em> he tells himself. The major league season is a little longer, but Patrick will still want to join him when it’s over. David can wait. And either way, he isn’t going to let it temper Patrick’s excitement, packing it up and shoving it down to be dealt with later when he’s alone. </p><p>For now, he flips them over and presses Patrick into the mattress and congratulates him the best way he knows how.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By the time the morning sunlight filtering through the window drags David from his sleep, Patrick is propped against the headboard and smiling down at his phone, fingers flying across the screen. In the few seconds he takes to lean over and give David a very thorough good morning kiss, his text notification pings four times.</p><p>“I think everyone who’s ever had my number is texting me right now,” he says, already sitting up again to type out a response to another message.</p><p>David snuggles closer and wraps himself around Patrick’s thigh, the closest part of him in reach, and nudges the hem of his boxer briefs up with his nose to brush a kiss across the sweet skin underneath. “Good. You deserve it.” He settles deeper into the pillows, hoping to sneak in a few more minutes of sleep, humming in contentment when Patrick’s fingers briefly scratch across his scalp before returning to his phone.</p><p>He wakes again to those callused fingers brushing across his cheek, the curve of his ear, the line of his jaw. “Hey, sleeping beauty.”</p><p>“Mmmmno. She was supposed to get to sleep for a lifetime,” David protests, refusing to open his eyes. “My boyfriend won’t even let me have ten more minutes.”</p><p>“I’m sorry? Your boyfriend?” Patrick’s incredulous tone finally gets David to pry himself the rest of the way awake, but the embers of panic trying to flare to life are immediately snuffed out by the happiness spreading across Patrick’s face. </p><p>“Yeah,” David says, letting himself embrace everything he’s been feeling. “My boyfriend. Maybe you’ve met him? Cocky. Funny. An ass to die for. A bit short.”</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>“And the newest catcher for the Toronto Blue Jays.”</p><p>Patrick’s smile grows from bright to blinding, and David has to crawl into his lap and press his mouth to it just to taste all that joy. He drops his weight, sinking down into the cradle of Patrick’s hips, bare ass rubbing against the cotton of his boxer briefs, and swallows down the groan that claws its way up his boyfriend’s throat.</p><p>“What time’s your flight?” he asks between long, luxurious kisses that leave them both panting. Patrick drops his phone somewhere into the sheets in favor of tugging sharply at David’s hips, dragging him across his hardening cock, and it’s David’s turn to groan, burying the sound in the side of Patrick’s delectable neck.</p><p>“8:30. But your dad said a car will be here around 4.”</p><p>“I was going to offer to drive you to the airport, but you’re talking about my dad while I’m trying to get you to fuck me, so offer rescinded.” </p><p>Those tempting lips tilt into a teasing smirk. “Can you rescind an offer you didn’t actually make?”</p><p>The tweaked nipple Patrick gets in response only causes him to grind harder up against David’s weight, plucking the heavy, electric hum in his veins a little closer to its crescendo. He fumbles for the bottle of lube on the nightstand, Patrick licking laughing kisses against his throat, delightedly contributing to David’s discoordination, but finally, in spite of Patrick’s distractions, he gets two fingers slicked up and presses them inside himself with a satisfied sigh.</p><p>The sound of it seems to ignite something in Patrick, and he hurries to pull his cock free from his boxer briefs and wraps his own slickened hand around both of them. His mouth smears hot and wet across David’s collarbone, and he thrusts up into his fist, their cocks sliding together deliciously as David fucks himself down onto his own fingers.</p><p>“I have an idea,” Patrick murmurs against his chest. The words are barely louder than the hot pulse of blood drumming in David’s ears, and it takes him another few seconds to string them together into something he understands. </p><p>“Does it involve you fu— ngh… fucking me... into this mattress?”</p><p>Patrick’s answering grin is full of promise. “It can.” And he rolls them over, David laughing as he tries to free his arm where it gets awkwardly trapped beneath them. Then Patrick gets more lube on his fingers and his fingers in David’s ass, and all his laughter melds into a long, low moan. “I thought maybe we could have David day.”</p><p>“T-today?” David asks, rocking down to meet every stroke of Patrick’s hand.</p><p>“Not ideal, I know, but with the Jays leading the East, it might be a couple months before we get another chance.” </p><p>“Ooh, yeah, tell me more about the AL standings,” David teases. “You know how it gets me going.”</p><p>Patrick laughs, far too put-together if he can still think about postseason prospects, so David gets his hands on Patrick’s cock where it’s still peeking out of his boxer briefs, stroking him quick and tight across the pink, slick head until Patrick’s fingers falter in their steady rhythm, his hips pumping erratically into David’s hand, and Patrick surges up to kiss him, messy and breathless and wild.</p><p>David loves this, knowing that he can make Patrick lose his composure this way. He’s so controlled all the time, his every movement through the world sure and certain in a way that David’s never been, and he loves that he gets to be the one to see the rare times when that falls away, when all that tight control gives way to need and desire. He loves that he can be the one to give that to Patrick, that chance to lose himself in the moment, loves that sex-drunk look he gets when David pants out, “Now. Fuck. I need— Need you now.”</p><p>There’s a condom pulled from the near-empty box on the nightstand, and more lube, and finally Patrick’s pushing inside him, and David loves it. He loves it. He—</p><p>Fuck, the feeling is right there, so close to the surface, like if he opens his mouth he might breathe it right out into the morning sunshine, like if Patrick looked hard enough he could maybe see it here written beneath his skin, his own name traced along David’s veins in twisting, burnished gold. </p><p>But he pushes it down, won’t name it and set it free because it’s far, far too early for any of that, because it’s terrifying, because admitting it even to himself will break him in ways he won’t be able to put back together, and so he gets his hands on Patrick’s face and neck, his shoulders, his back, and pulls him close, kisses him hard, so that there’s no space left for those feelings to squeeze between them. The cotton of Patrick’s boxer briefs rubs roughly against the tender skin of his thighs, and Patrick gets a hand under his knee, pulling it up to open him wider, to thrust deeper. David keens at the feeling, back arching, every inch of his skin sensitive and aching with need. </p><p>“David, I’m— Fuck, I’m so close. Are you—”</p><p>David nods, desperate and greedy. “God, yeah, do it. Come on. Give it to me.”</p><p>Patrick snaps his hips, sharper, bruising, buries himself deep, and sobs out his orgasm into the humid curve of David’s neck. And then before he can even catch his breath, he’s moving, pulling out and slipping down to lick across the wet, eager head of David’s cock and suck him down. It doesn’t take much, just a few strokes from all that slick heat, and he’s coming hard and desperate into Patrick’s hungry mouth. </p><p>Once the boneless afterglow ebbs enough that he can move again, his fingers scrabble at Patrick’s shoulders, interrupting him where he’s pressing gentle kisses along the insides of David’s thighs, to encourage him back up the bed so that David can kiss him properly. They collapse into the pillows together, content in the quiet, until David’s stomach rumbles and Patrick chuckles.</p><p>“I’m guessing the next step of David day is going to be breakfast.”</p><p>David gives him a stern look that he suspects is made far less effective by his inability to keep his satisfaction off his face. “Isn’t the whole point of David day that <em>I</em> get to pick what we do?”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry, did you not want me to give you a mindblowing orgasm and then take you out for waffles?” He turns his softest, pleadingest, most apologetic puppy dog eyes on David who simply closes his own eyes in response, refusing to be moved by such an obvious manipulation. But then Patrick smothers him with kisses instead, apologizing between each one, begging for forgiveness, until David laughs and agrees.</p><p>“Fine. We can do breakfast, but then…” He drops a kiss on the tip of Patrick’s nose. “Then we’re going to the game.”</p><p>“You do know I said ‘<em>David</em> day,’ right?”</p><p>“Yep.” He rolls toward the edge of the bed and pushes himself to his feet, intent on taking a shower, but he only makes it a few steps before Patrick catches his hand and pulls him back around, his arms settling around David’s waist in their usual place, like they were made to fit.</p><p>“We can do whatever you want, and you’re choosing to go to a game?”</p><p>“Is that okay?”</p><p>“Wha— Of course it’s okay,” Patrick sputters. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to or something.”</p><p>“I kind of do though.” Patrick opens his mouth to protest, but David shakes his head. “We’re in Schitt’s Creek, so it’s either a game or let Ray take us on that historic barn tour he’s been advertising.”</p><p>“Fair point, I guess.”</p><p><a id="return8" name="return8"></a>What he doesn’t say is that he wants to do this, that he wants to spend their last day here together enjoying the thing that got them to this point. That even though he’s started to enjoy the game, just a little, he likes it much more with Patrick beside him, whispering about on-base percentages and the importance of framing, like they’re secrets entrusted only to him.<sup>[<a href="#note8">8</a>]</sup> He doesn’t say either that he’s been picturing taking Patrick apart on the new sofa in his private box or that he just wants to spend a few more hours in this weird, horrible, magical place that has made him so unexpectedly happy.</p><p>“Besides,” he says instead, brushing his fingers across the curves of Patrick’s shoulders and trying his best not to look like he’s memorizing the shape of them, “we’ll have plenty of time for more David days. Right?”</p><p>A slow smile settles on Patrick’s lips, and he leans in to brush it across David’s mouth. “We have all the time in the world.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“His pop time could use some more work,” Patrick says as the ball reaches second base a fraction of a second after the stealing runner.</p><p>David gestures toward the Bears’ catcher with a cheese-covered French fry. “That’s the thing about how fast he throws the ball after catching it, right?”</p><p>“God, I love it when you talk baseball to me.”</p><p>He blushes, pleased, as Patrick drops a kiss to his cheek. “So tell me about your”—his shoulders wiggle in a sultry little shimmy—”pop time.” It’s a ridiculous line, and Patrick giggles and kisses him properly, thoroughly, in lieu of an actual answer. His hands find David’s jaw, holding him close as he slips a teasing tongue into his mouth, moaning softly as David’s fingers clutch at his thigh. But just as David’s thinking maybe they should move this to the sofa instead of these uncomfortable bar chairs, he pulls away again, stealing one of David’s fries and chewing it with a knowing smile, clearly aware of exactly how much he’s pushing all of David’s buttons and enjoying every second of it.</p><p>And David only wants more of it, is pretty sure now that he’ll never stop wanting more of this, and the way that Patrick’s looking at him says that maybe he’s not alone in that desire, that maybe Patrick somehow might want that, too. Part of him wants to offer to join Patrick in Toronto. A bigger part of him wants Patrick to ask him to come. He knows it isn’t feasible—Patrick is going to be busy learning a whole new team, and while David can do a lot of the work for the new location remotely, he does need to at least put in a few appearances to keep things on track—but it’s been so long since he felt this damn happy that he can’t help but want to chase the feeling.</p><p>He squeezes in closer as they turn back to the game, cheering on the team with the rest of the crowd. Patrick gets a few more texts he lets go unanswered, and David’s pile of fries dwindles down to the last few crumbs, and they make a game out of kissing every time the Bears make contact. It’s perhaps not his ideal David day, but it’s pretty fucking good anyway.</p><p>Rodriguez, an outfielder just brought up from the Double-A team, walks to the plate as the chorus of “Fantasy” fills the stadium, and David nearly chokes. “What is happening right now? Is he seriously using this as his walk-up?”</p><p>“Seems like it.”</p><p>“I don’t think Mariah would approve.” His frown only grows as they watch Rodriguez strike out. Definitely not the kind of honor Mariah deserves. “How did you choose yours anyway?”</p><p>Patrick shrugs. “My dad’s really into Rush. We listened to <i>Moving Pictures</i> a lot when I was a kid, and it just kinda seemed like an easy choice.” Peterson grounds out to bring the sixth inning to a close, and Patrick settles deeper into his seat, giving David a long look. “I was thinking I might change it up a bit when I get to Toronto though.”</p><p>“To what?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” Patrick picks a piece of lint off of his sleeve, rolling it carefully between his fingers. “I thought maybe you, um, might help me choose.”</p><p>“Oh, so you want something to make you think of me?” David teases, preening a little, because it’s easier to make a joke of it than to let himself believe Patrick might be asking exactly that. </p><p>Patrick chuckles. “Yeah, what do you think of ‘You’re So Vain’?”</p><p>“Rude. I was thinking more like ‘Dreamlover.’” </p><p>“I don’t think Mariah would approve.”</p><p>David flails a hand toward the field. “Well, that ship’s clearly sailed.”</p><p>“How ‘bout, ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’?” He leans in for a kiss, but David gets a hand in the way just in time and Patrick laughs against his palm.</p><p>“Absolutely not.”</p><p>That delighted sparkle in his eyes only shines brighter then, and David knows he’s in for it. “Maybe ‘You Sexy Thing,’” Patrick suggests instead. “Or ‘Whatta Man.’ ‘I Want Your Sex.’” David buries his face in his hands, groaning. "'Let’s Get It On.’”</p><p>“I hate you,” he mutters through his fingers.</p><p>“Oh, no, wait, I have the perfect one. ‘Kiss from—’”</p><p>“Don’t you dare!”</p><p>“'—a Rose.’”</p><p>David peeks out an eye to glare at him. “Remind me why I’m dating you again?”</p><p>“Because you think I’m funny.”</p><p>Patrick swoops in for a kiss, and David mumbles, “Debatable,” against his plush lips.</p><p>“And charming.” Another kiss.</p><p>“Rarely.”</p><p>“And sexy.” One more.</p><p>“On occasion.”</p><p>“Admit it,” Patrick says, the words brushed right into the corner of his mouth, tingling against his skin. “You like me, David Rose.”</p><p>David rolls his eyes even as he leans in. But Patrick pulls away, and David nearly falls out of his seat in his efforts to chase him down. Patrick grins widely then, full of a childish kind of glee, and he bolts up and across the room, David right on his heels. The box isn’t big enough for either of them to go far, but they chase each other around it anyway, laughing until it’s hard to breathe, and then it only takes a few more seconds for David to get Patrick crowded up against a wall. </p><p>“Fine.” They’re panting against each other as he gets his hands around Patrick’s jaw, holding him still, and he knows that if he tries again now, Patrick will let him kiss him this time, long and thorough the way he wants. But Patrick wanted him to play the game, and David may be a lot of things, but he isn’t a cheater. “I like you, Patrick,” he says, already bending down to meet that inviting mouth. “I like you <em>so</em> much,” he says, already meaning so much more than that.</p><p>They let themselves get carried away, getting just handsy enough that David’s about to suggest they move this to the couch, when Patrick’s cell phone rings, and he drops his head back against the wall with a sigh. He pulls the phone from his pocket just as it stops, frowning at the screen.</p><p>“It’s my agent. I should probably go call her back. I’m sure she wants to talk about Toronto.” David pouts, just to see Patrick smile again. “I’ll make it up to you with a funnel cake, okay?”</p><p>“Ooh, yes, please.” David gives him one last kiss before he goes, openly checking out his ass as he heads for the door. “Extra chocolate sauce on the side!” he calls after him, and the door swings closed on the sound of Patrick’s easy laughter.</p><p><a id="return9" name="return9"></a>It’s only a few minutes later that it opens behind him again as he claps with the rest of the crowd. “You just missed a double play!” he says without turning around. “I think a… 6-4-3? Is that the one where the shortstop catches it first?”<sup>[<a href="#note9">9</a>]</sup></p><p>“Oh my god, that’s so cute!” comes a voice that is decidedly not Patrick’s, and David whips around to glare at the door with a mix of confusion and horror. “Look at you all excited about baseball things.”</p><p>“Alexis, what the hell are you doing here?”</p><p>“Um, it’s <em>so</em> nice to see you, too, David.” She breezes further into the room, dropping her purse on the counter of the kitchenette and trying (and failing) to hide her distaste as she takes in the space. “I told you I was coming. It’s not my fault you were too busy canoodling to remember.”</p><p>“First of all, no one says ‘canoodling’ but Dad, which… ew.” He grimaces. “And second of all, you’ve blown me off the last three times I tried to have lunch with you, so excuse me for assuming this would be no different.”</p><p>“And miss a chance to meet this cute little sports man Stevie tells me you’ve been hooking up with?” She plops herself down into Patrick’s seat, and David pointedly scoots his stool farther away, the legs screeching horridly against the linoleum. “So where is he? Or have things already…” She pulls an ugly face, and David rolls his eyes.</p><p>“We’re great, thanks so much.” He tries his best not to blush—it might as well be blood in the water to a shark like his sister. “Patrick just went to get us a funnel cake.”</p><p>She raises her brows in surprise. “You’re eating carbs in front of him? Wow, you must really like this guy.”</p><p>That, he thinks, is putting it mildly, but he’s certainly not going to say that to Alexis; he would truly never hear the end of it. He opts to change the subject instead. “Didn’t you say you were bringing a friend?”</p><p>“Oh, yeah, she, like, thought she saw someone she knew or something. That happens all the time somehow.”</p><p>“So what’s going on there?”</p><p>“Oh, nothing.” But the hand with which she waves it off is a little too casual, and David grins.</p><p>“Nothing <em>yet,</em> you mean.”</p><p>She pins him with a fierce look, but she still hasn’t mastered manipulating him with it as well as Stevie has. So he waits her out, and finally she sighs and gives him a quick, one shoulder shrug. “We’re taking it slow.”</p><p>He thinks of all the times he’s had to send the family plane to pick her up from some getaway with a new boytoy gone wrong, the times he’s seen her bounce from one person to another to another in the course of a single week. If it had made her happy, he wouldn’t care—hell, he’s done plenty of that himself—but he’d always gotten the impression that she felt as unfulfilled by all of it as he had, and if she’s taking things slow this time, it must be with someone worth going slow for.</p><p>David can appreciate that.</p><p>“I like this look for you.”</p><p>“Ew, stop,” she complains, but she doesn’t turn away fast enough to fully hide the smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Remember when Dad bought this for you?” She looks out over the field where the Bears are up to bat again, up two runs over the Red Wings. “You just thought the name was funny, and he thought it meant you were actually interested in sports.”</p><p>“God, as if.”</p><p>“But you are now, aren’t you?” She looks him up and down, and it feels like being x-rayed. “I know I’ve only been here for, like, two seconds, but you’re different now. You’re… better. I can tell.”</p><p>He rears back. “What is <em>that</em> supposed to mean?”</p><p>“I don’t know, David, you just seem happy or something, okay?” One long finger tries to boop at his nose, and he swats it away. “But seriously, where’s this boyfriend of yours? Or did you make this one up, too?”</p><p>“That was one time!” he argues, sliding out of his seat. “I just didn’t want mom to set me up with Grace’s son again. He thought Hvar was a kind of cheese.”</p><p>“Isn’t it?”</p><p>“Oh my god.” </p><p>He throws up his hands and goes in search of Patrick rather than continue any more of this conversation. However, as much as dealing with Alexis makes him want to walk into traffic, he is happy to see her. And he does want Patrick to meet her. She’ll probably treat him like a puppy, cooing over how cute he is, but he kind of wants to see it anyway, sickening as it will be. He wants to watch that blush rise in Patrick’s cheeks, the way he’ll duck his head as she gives him some strange, Alexisy compliment. He wants her to give him the world’s most unsubtle wink of approval and for Patrick to tease him about it later when they’re alone. He wants to see them together and get the tiniest taste of what it might be like to have Patrick in his life for good, mingling with his family at lavish holiday parties and rare, ill-advised Sunday night dinners.</p><p>As he approaches the concessions area in the central concourse, he spies his boyfriend talking animatedly with a petite redhead, no funnel cake in sight. Leave it to Patrick to get distracted before even getting to the actual reason he’d come out here in the first place. David shakes his head fondly and makes a beeline toward him, but he stops short when the woman reaches out a hand to brush against Patrick’s arm, intimate and familiar. He expects Patrick to brush her off, but he doesn’t. If anything, his face goes softer, a look David has learned well these past few weeks, and his heart slams against the fragile cage of his ribs. </p><p>Despite everything telling him to turn back, he scoots around the edge of the crowd, working his way around behind Patrick where he can get a little closer. </p><p>“I’m just so happy that you’ve finally made it, Pudge,” the woman says, and David grimaces. <em>Pudge?</em></p><p>“You know no one calls me that anymore, Rach,” Patrick replies, but it doesn’t sound dismissive. It sounds… fond. “Or do I have to call you Shell in public?”</p><p>She scoffs. “I hate using a fake name, and you know it. But it certainly gets me in the door faster than <em>Rachel</em> Myers does.” </p><p><em>Shell.</em> Why does he know that name? David takes a better look at her. She’s quite pretty, her long red hair falling in soft lines around her face, and he realizes with a jolt that she’s the one he’s been seeing in pictures with his sister these last few weeks. That isn’t where he knows the name from though—he’s fairly sure Alexis never called her Shell in any of her posts. </p><p>“But you,” she touches Patrick’s arm again, and David pulls his hands up into his sleeves to hide the way they’re shaking. “You know you can always call me Rach.” </p><p>There’s something so tender in her voice, it’s clear that whatever she is to Patrick, it’s not some casual thing. They aren’t random acquaintances pretending to be interested for the five minutes they see each other every few years. No, this is someone Patrick knows well, someone who knows him, and David knows he has no right to be jealous, that he’s probably blowing things out of proportion, that—god—it hasn’t even been a week since they first kissed, but still he can tell that something isn’t right here from the way every nerve in his body feels like it’s been hooked up to an electrical grid and run through with a hundred thousand volts. He can tell right down in the sparking marrow of his bones that there’s something he hasn’t been told.</p><p>“You know I still have the baseball you proposed to me with,” she tells Patrick, and David nearly falls down under the weight of his shock. “Maybe I should have you sign it now that you’re such a big shot.” </p><p>They laugh together, unaware that ten feet away, David’s heart is cracking right down the middle, the edges crumbling so badly he already knows the pieces will never fit back together the way they should.</p><p>“So,” she says, still laughing, “who’d you have to blow to talk yourself into this call-up? Introduce me. I want to thank him for all this money he’s about to make us.” </p><p>Whatever Patrick might have to say in response, David can’t hear it over the fury roaring to life inside him, clawing its way over the panic and fear and heartbreak to drag itself free. Because he recognizes her name now, from the Wikipedia page he read weeks ago. Shell Myers. Patrick’s agent. And his fiancée too apparently. And David knows then that he’s been played. Thoroughly.</p><p>“That would be me, apparently,” he spits, loudly enough for several nearby fans to turn and look.</p><p>Rachel glances his way, curious. But Patrick— Patrick turns so slowly, his already fair skin gone deathly white, and David can’t look at him. He can’t bear it. He doesn’t want to see the guilt or fear or panic or smug victory or whatever it is he might see in those expressive eyes he loves—loved—so much, and he marches straight down the hall toward the stairs, throwing the door open just as the tears begin to fall. </p><p>There’s another set of footsteps somewhere behind him, and he can just hear Patrick calling his name over the sharp, panicked draw of his own breath, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. He can’t because he’s weak and he knows that if he gives Patrick a chance to explain, he’ll let him talk him into understanding, let him feed him a line of lies until he’s satisfied with it, because there’s nothing David wants more than to understand, than for there to be some logical and reasonable explanation for this, but Patrick is <em>engaged,</em> he’s engaged to the woman who must be responsible for getting him to Schitt’s Creek in the first place, the woman who’s been snuggling up to David’s sister, too, and it looks a hell of a lot like they’ve both been played here, that Stevie was right—and <em>fuck</em> if that doesn’t hurt, too—that Patrick has used him just as horribly as Sebastien had.</p><p>God, he’s been so stupid. He knew Patrick was too good to be true. All the texts and calls from his “agent,” all these weeks, probably checking in on how the scheme was going. And just last night, he’d wondered why Patrick would have his dad’s number—it’s all clear now. He wonders if there’s a sign-up sheet somewhere, <em>Fuck Your Way to the Majors: A Complete How-To Course,</em> with Patrick’s name signed at the top right below Sebastien’s. Maybe next season the third name on the list will give it a go, and another the year after that, an endless line of baseball players fucking him over and breaking his heart for the rest of eternity, his own cruel hell.</p><p>Patrick catches up to him just outside the gate, right in front of that ugly fucking bear mural David hates so much, and it’s only appropriate somehow that it should all end here.</p><p>“David, wait,” Patrick says, reaching out to catch his hand, and David pulls away like he’s been burned.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“It’s just— It’s a misunderstanding.”</p><p>“Oh, is it?” David roars. “So that’s not your agent in there? Your fiancée,” he spits, refusing to allow the word to tremble in his mouth. </p><p>“Rachel and I, we— we were engaged, but— David, you have to believe me. I can explain. Just let me explain,” he pleads, and David was right that he can’t bear those eyes, wet and shining and red, so he closes his own instead.</p><p>“Don’t.” His voice breaks, and he stumbles backward a few steps, shaking his head. “‘My agent,’ you said. <em>Every</em> time. Texts from your agent. Your agent calling. You never, not once, said—” He can’t manage the word again, so he swallows hard, pulling himself up tall as he pushes down all his anger and his sorrow just far enough that he can get this last bit out. “I hope you’re happy in Toronto. Please don’t contact me again.”</p><p>And he turns on his heel and marches across the parking lot, refusing to take one more look at everything he can’t even lose because it turns out it was never his to begin with.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note8" name="note8"></a><sup>8</sup> OBP is exactly what it sounds like—the percentage of time a batter gets on base, from a hit, walk, or being hit by a pitch. Framing is a skill where catchers try to catch pitches in such a way that those at the edge of the strike zone appear more like a strike than a ball to the umpire. [<a href="#return8">▲</a>]</p><p><a id="note9" name="note9"></a><sup>9</sup> Every position has a number associated with it. David is correct that 6 is the shortstop; this sequence tells us that the shortstop (6) was the one to grab the ball after the batter hit it, and he threw it to the second baseman (4), who then threw it to the first baseman (3). [<a href="#return9">▲</a>]</p><p>*</p><p>Patrick's nickname, Pudge, comes from Hall of Fame catcher Iván "Pudge" Rodríguez. He was an excellent defensive catcher, one of only five players to have caught more than 2,000 games, and the record holder for most putouts by any catcher at 14,864.  His MLB debut came 10 days after Patrick was born in this fic, and he played for 21 seasons, so he's definitely a catcher Patrick would have grown up admiring.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. bottom of the ninth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>David realizes halfway home that he left everything in his hotel room in Elmdale. </p><p>He can’t go back though, not right now. Maybe not ever. He’ll have to call tomorrow and extend his reservation until Stevie can drive out there and collect everything he left behind.</p><p>
  <em>Well.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Not everything.</em>
</p><p>He pulls over at the next exit and sobs until he can’t breathe.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>By the time he drags himself into his apartment, he has two texts from Stevie and eleven more plus a voicemail from Alexis. He sends Stevie a message about the hotel, shuts off his phone, and buries himself in bed without so much as taking off his shoes.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Four days later, he stumbles out of his bedroom in search of water to wash down a couple more Ambien and finds a small pile of luggage stacked neatly on his coffee table. His sweaters. His shoes. His bedding. His travel skincare collection. </p><p>There’s no sign, however, of a wilted, white ranunculus, and David collapses into a heap on the living room floor and lets himself fall apart all over again.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>“Get up.”</p><p>Stevie drags the duvet down from where it’s covering his head, letting in the sunlight. He isn’t sure what time of day it is, but he’s sure that it’s much too bright anyway and buries his face under his pillow instead. Then she steals that, too, the harpy.</p><p>“Get up, David.”</p><p>“Nnnnnnnnnn,” he whines, turning over to plant his face into the mattress and covering his head with his arms.</p><p>“I don’t want to be here any more than you want me here,” she tells him, and he thinks he should probably be offended, but frankly he can’t muster up the energy to care. “But you literally pay me to take care of the things you can’t, and right now, that unfortunately means I’m stuck taking care of <em>you.</em>”</p><p>“Go away,” he says. Or tries to say. Or maybe he just thinks it sorta hard. Either way, she doesn’t listen, and two hands find his ankles and drag him down and off the foot of the bed, leaving him in a heap on the floor while Stevie starts digging incautiously through his dresser. She flings a pair of underwear at him and then disappears into his closet, coming back with a pair of joggers and a longline hoodie that’s three seasons out of date but still the comfiest thing he owns. </p><p>“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” she says, attempting to drag him to his feet. It isn’t an easy task since he bonelessly refuses to cooperate, but she somehow manages to get it done anyway and shoves the bundle of clothes into his hands. “You’re going to take a shower and brush your teeth. I am going to put these sheets in the wash and remake your bed. Then we are going to the store because there are only four weeks left until we open, and I cannot continue to do everything myself.” He opens his mouth to protest, but she silences him with a stern finger. “And <em>if</em> you can do all of that without complaining, I will order you one of those ridiculous burgers from that place you love in Chinatown and let you pick what movie you want to watch tonight while we drink too much wine and you tell me as much or as little as you want about all of this.”</p><p>His arms and legs feel like they’re full of lead, and he’s pretty sure he can’t actually physically do any of that, but she pushes him into the bathroom and turns on the water and threatens to shove him under the spray with his pajamas still on. The heat and the steam and the steady pounding sound of it is enticing though, and he manages to wave her off and undress himself and climb in under his own power, letting the water drumming against his skin beat a little life back into him. </p><p>He cries for a few short minutes when he thinks about the last shower that he and Patrick shared, the way their laughter and then their moans had echoed off the tile walls, but he also double washes his hair and scrubs at his feet and lets his conditioner set properly before rinsing it out, and slowly he feels like he’s coming back to himself. When he gets out, he even manages a few steps of his skincare routine, knowing he at least needs to moisturize after the heat of the shower. He brushes his teeth and flosses, too, gets dressed, and does his best to lift his hair into something vaguely resembling its usual height. It’s not perfect, and the image in the mirror is definitely that of a man trying his best to not look like a hole has been punched through him, even while blood is still seeping from the wound, but he supposes it’s at least slightly better than looking fully like a corpse.</p><p>When he finally emerges from the bathroom, his bed is made up with fresh sheets, the kitchen has been wiped down and the trash emptied, and Stevie is already opening the front door to usher him out.</p><p>He isn’t ready. But he puts one foot in front of the other and lets the promise of food and friendship lead him back out into the world.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p><a href="https://youtu.be/ovkiChacfc8?t=38"><em>You see? That is just like you, Harry,</em></a> Sally cries. <em>You say things like that, and you make it impossible for me to hate you. And I hate you, Harry. I really hate you.</em></p><p>And then they’re kissing as “Auld Lang Syne” plays in the background, and David curls further into Stevie’s side, still managing a few more tears despite feeling empty and wrung out.</p><p>Later, he confesses the words, wet and broken, into the quiet dark of his bedroom. “I hate him, Stevie. I really hate him.” </p><p>She finds his hand beneath the blankets and gives it a long, steady squeeze.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>She never does say <em>I told you so.</em></p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>When he turns his phone on again, he deletes every unread text and unheard voicemail in his inbox. </p><p>If only he could erase the last two months of his life so easily.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It takes a couple more days before David can get out the door in the morning on his own, but the Monday after that, he manages to make it in before both Stevie and their recently-hired branch manager, Ruana, arrive for the day.</p><p>There’s still plenty of work to be done, but things are really coming together, with the last of Jake’s pieces to be delivered this week and most of their stock already making itself at home on their shelves. It’s starting to feel like an actual store, and though David had thought that perhaps his excitement would be dampened by having done all this before, he’s just as proud to see it all coming together as he had been the first time. </p><p><em>This is real,</em> he thinks, running his fingers over the cool glass of the water dispenser at the entrance, the soft silk of the hand-dyed handkerchiefs and scarves, the sleek, solid wood of the checkout counter, grounding himself in the physical space, in here and now. This is real, not the fantasy he’d been living for the last few months. It’s real, and it’s his, and he’s going to give it all the care and attention and love he’d been handing to someone else.</p><p>He turns on their soft jazz playlist, lights one of Anton’s grapefruit and sea salt candles, and busies himself unboxing the last of the infused olive oils. And with every tall, sleek bottle he sets into the exact space he’s created for it, another little piece of himself settles into place.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>On Wednesday, he interviews a business manager for the gallery, someone who can keep a better eye on the books than he ever has. Kai has excellent references and a seemingly high tolerance for sarcasm, and he offers them the job on the spot. Then he calls his father.</p><p>“Your mother and I only ever wanted what was best for you, son.”</p><p><em>Maybe their intentions were good,</em> reminds a voice he wishes he could forget.</p><p>David’s been doing a lot of thinking about intentions lately, about what people do and why, about pain and all the knowing and unknowing ways we inflict it, and it makes it a little easier to take his father at his word.</p><p>“I know,” he says. “But I’m serious. Not a cent more to a patron, an artist, anyone, without my express permission. I can do this on my own, and I need you to let me try.”</p><p>“Of course. We’ll do whatever makes you happy.”</p><p>This isn’t happiness, David thinks, but it’s a start. “Thank you.” </p><p>Johnny clears his throat awkwardly. “By the way, if you, uh, need a suite for this weekend, I can— I can make a call. Just say the word and I’ll…” David doesn’t have the first clue what he’s talking about and opens his mouth to say so, but his dad just keeps fumbling onward. “I just want you to know that— that I support you, and it’s, well, maybe it was a little... unethical before, but, uh, now that he doesn’t play for the Bears, it’s—”</p><p>“Nope. No. We’re not— Bye!” David gets out, barely managing to hit the end call button before he starts to hyperventilate.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>He should throw it out, he thinks, the baseball that’s been rolling around in the tray atop his dresser since the end of July. There’d been a point when he’d imagined putting it in a case, protected by glass like the memories on Patrick’s mantel. Maybe he still should. He can set it out on his coffee table or his kitchen counter: a relationship memento mori. A reminder that everyone leaves, sooner or later.</p><p>For now though, he tucks it away in the drawer with his heavy, winter knits. Maybe by the time he opens the drawer again, he’ll be ready to face the memories it holds.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>His phone chirps from the bedroom while David is on step eight of his nightly skincare regimen, but he ignores it in favor of tapping eye cream into the dark bags that seem to have taken up permanent residence on his face. They’ve faded a little this week, but he still looks sunken and haunted in a way he hasn’t since he was 19 and trying to break into modeling. </p><p>It’s the lack of sleep that’s the real problem, he knows. He’d passed out for nearly a week straight when he’d first come home, but since their movie night when Stevie confiscated all of his sleeping pills, most nights he manages no more than a few hours, if any at all. He keeps trying anyway, going through the motions of all his regular routines and crawling under the covers and trying not to think about how sleeping alone never used to feel this lonely.</p><p>When he’s done with his moisturizer, he checks that the front door is locked, turns out the lights, and slips into bed. The notification he’d heard is for a voicemail from some 617 number he doesn’t recognize, and as he tries to figure out who would be calling him this late, a second message arrives. He dials into his inbox and puts it on speaker, and a voice he hasn’t heard in nineteen days rises up out of the darkness.</p><p>“Uh, hi, Patrick. It’s Dav— I-I mean, it’s— Fuck. I’m— I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be—” </p><p>David gasps around the fist-sized knot that swells up between his lungs, but he can’t make himself move to end the call. </p><p>“I, uh, I know you asked me not to— Well, you know. But I can’t just—” There’s a slurry quality to all his softer consonants that suggest he’s had a few drinks, and it only makes the knot in David’s chest grow. “We’re flying in from Boston. Tomorrow. For a three-game series. And I’d like to, um, if you’ll let me— Will you let me explain? Please. I—”</p><p>The message cuts off, and David squeezes his eyes shut and starts counting backwards by threes—<em>500, 497, 494, 491</em>—to try to fend off the panic attack clawing at the tender skin of his throat.</p><p>“She is my agent,” the second message begins, and apparently Patrick isn’t even willing to wait to do this in person. </p><p>But of course, David was never going to call him back, and it seems he knows that.</p><p>“And my ex-fiancée,” he continues. <em>482. 479.</em> “But I called it off back in Toledo. That’s why I went looking for another team. I needed a fresh start. And Rachel, she—” <em>464. 461. 458.</em> “I broke her heart and still she helped me. Got me signed with the Bears. But that’s it, I swear. Schitt’s Creek was the only plan.” <em>452. 449.</em> “She’s a friend, now, and I know I should have told you about her, but I just wanted to move on. Because that wasn’t my life anymore, and maybe it was stupid o-or naive, but I just wanted to enjoy this new one without looking back. I didn’t realize it would look like— like I was...”</p><p>There’s a sound then that might be a sob, and David echoes it unwillingly.</p><p>“I’m so sorry. I hate that I hurt you. And I know you don’t want to hear from me, and I-I probably deserve that. But I didn’t— I’d never—” His breath is harsh and loud and hiccuping, and they’re both fully crying now. “<em>God,</em> David, this summer has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and <em>none of that</em> has to do with the game. None of it. I need you to know that.” </p><p>David gives up on counting and curls himself into the smallest ball he possibly can, shaking under the weight of Patrick’s words. </p><p>“I told you once that baseball is about hope. That that’s what I’ve spent my life chasing.” There’s a long pause, and when Patrick speaks again, it’s so soft David can barely hear it. “You gave me hope, too, David. You still do.”</p><p>Silence cuts sharply through the room, and it severs the strings that are holding him together. The tears come hot and fast, and hours later when he finally falls into a fitful sleep, David dreams of storm-washed skies over angry seas and an outstretched hand always just out of reach.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>He drags Stevie out to the house in Martha’s Vineyard for the weekend, and if she wonders what brings on the sudden need to escape the city, she’s smart enough not to ask.</p><p>They drink coffee on the porch in the mornings and sleep with the windows thrown wide at night. They eat junk food and get crossfaded and do dramatic readings of all the silliest bits from the collection of trashy romance novels in the study. And in the quiet moments between the rest, David tries not to wonder what would have happened if he’d just returned Patrick’s call.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The grand opening of Rose Apothecary’s second location goes off without a hitch. There’s champagne and mini quiches and enough customers to keep David, Stevie, Ruana, and their rotating staff of employees busy from open to close.</p><p>It’s a nice feeling, to know he can still do this, and the satisfaction of it lingers deep in his bones as he and Stevie finally step out into the crisp, early October night. Still, it was a long, busy day on his feet, and he wants nothing more than to spend the rest of the evening in the tub with a bottle of wine and a couple of Julia’s sappiest films. So with the lights out and the door finally locked behind them, he turns automatically toward his apartment.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Stevie asks.</p><p>“Home.”</p><p>“Absolutely not. We are <em>celebrating.</em>”</p><p>He sighs and shakes his head. “I just want to go home, Stevie. I’m hungry and exhausted, and I’m not sure my dry cleaner is going to be able to salvage this sweater after how much I’ve been sweating in it.”</p><p>“Oh, so that’s what that smell is.”</p><p>“You can leave now.” He scowls at her, but she just laughs.</p><p>“Fine. A compromise,” she offers. “I’ll concede going to that dive at the end of your block, and you concede to having <em>one</em> drink. After that I’ll let you go home and mope around your apartment some more.”</p><p>“I’m not moping,” he mutters as she threads her arm through his and turns him back in the direction he was already heading.</p><p>“I was in the elevator with 9B last week, and she slipped me a business card for an exorcist.” When David says nothing, she adds, “You know, because of all the wailing.”</p><p>“Okay, that’s enough out of you.”</p><p>“I’m just saying maybe a night out wouldn’t kill you.”</p><p>He sighs as the walk sign lights up, and they step off the curb. “You’re not going to give it up, are you?”</p><p>“Have we met?”</p><p>“Fine. One drink.”</p><p>They turn at the next corner and cross the street to slip into the Wobbly Elm. It’s dark and dingy and not at all the kind of place David usually prefers, but it’s close to his loft and at least affords him the luxury of never having to run into anyone he knows.</p><p>“David!” comes an all-too-familiar voice from the corner, and Stevie’s grip tightens on his arm, keeping him from turning and walking right back out the door. He tries to plant his feet, but she’s freakishly strong and just keeps dragging him toward the table.</p><p>“What is she doing here?” he asks, voice gone high with distrust.</p><p>“Um, rude, David. I’m, like, right here,” says his sister as Stevie deposits him in the chair across from her, and he glares back and forth between the two of them.</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>“‘Well’ what?”</p><p>He gestures around in exasperation. “Why are you here?”</p><p>“Am I not allowed to congratulate my brother on opening his new store?” </p><p>“Not usually.” </p><p>She reaches out with a finger stretched toward his nose, and he smacks her hand away, an army of gold bangles jingling on her wrist. It’s not that some part of him isn’t happy she’s here, but seeing her now only reminds him of the last time she’d put in a surprise appearance, and that ever-present ache behind his breastbone turns a little sharper.</p><p>“You could have just texted or something.”</p><p>“How?”</p><p>“Um, with your phone obviously.”</p><p>“No, I mean <em>how?</em> You haven’t answered a single message I’ve sent in the last month.”</p><p>“I’ve been busy!” he says, but he can’t quite meet her eye.</p><p>“Mhmm. <em>So</em> busy.” She nods sagely. “And how many times have you watched <i>The Notebook</i>?”</p><p>“Walk into traffic, Alexis.”</p><p>Something near the bar seems to catch her eye suddenly, but she quickly turns back to him. “It’s fine, David, I know you’ve been, like, a total mess.” He scoffs and tries to protest, but she bulldozes right over him. “But start answering your texts, okay? I just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”</p><p>He raises his brows at her, and she stares right back, steely and stubborn—a look she’s borrowed from their mother—but with a hint of genuine concern that makes him finally cave. “Fine. I will <em>try</em> to be more responsive.”</p><p>“Thank you,” she says. “Now. You can make it up to me by buying me a drink. Something cute, maybe with an umbrella.”</p><p>There’s no question in her tone, so he rolls his eyes and pushes back his chair to head for the bar. “I’ll take one, too,” Stevie calls after him.</p><p>“Oh, you’ll be getting your own drinks after this little bit of betrayal.”</p><p>The bartender nods to acknowledge that she’s seen him, and David lets his gaze wander while he waits, over tidy rows of glass bottles and dark, wood panelled walls. There’s a TV hanging above the end of the bar, and he blanches as a player with <i>Blue Jays</i> written across his chest strikes out swinging. The shot cuts then to a close-up of the pitcher, smug and horrible, and it feels like he’s been punched twice in the stomach. He nearly doubles over at the shock of it.</p><p>“Can you turn this off?” he squeaks out, but the bartender has already moved down to the other end to help another patron, and the question hangs in the air unanswered. </p><p>In spite of himself, he finds his gaze drawn back to the screen, just as someone’s walk-up song begins to play beneath the commentary. He recognizes the music at the same time he recognizes the player, and if he weren’t leaning against the bar, he’d already be on the floor with the way his legs seem to have gone numb.</p><p>Memories rise up from all the places he’s been trying to bury them: A white ranunculus. Hot, fresh pizza. Quarters in a jukebox. A midnight blue blazer and hands wrapped around his waist while a sweet voice sings softly in his ear.</p><p><em>And we can build this thing together</em><br/>
<em>Standing strong forever</em><br/>
<em>Nothing's gonna stop us now</em></p><p>The crowd sings along with the last line as Patrick steps up to the plate, devastating in his crisp white and blue uniform, and David wonders if this is what dying feels like, the way his body and everything around him seems to fade away to black and he struggles to pull in a single breath.</p><p>“Well that’s new.”</p><p>“Holy fuck!” He jumps, heart pounding, and looks down to find yet another in tonight’s seemingly endless series of surprises. </p><p>Rachel Myers smiles up at him kindly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Rachel, though I’m pretty sure you already know that.”</p><p>“What the—” He glances back at his sister who is pointedly looking anywhere else.</p><p>“You know, we used to play ball together in the field behind his house when we were kids,” Rachel says nodding toward the screen, and David turns in time to see a foul ball arc high off the tip of the bat and into the stands behind the dugout. He doesn’t want to watch, doesn’t want to listen to stories about Patrick’s childhood, doesn’t want to be anywhere near this trap in which his sister and his best friend have somehow ensnared him, but short of suddenly discovering the secret to teleportation, he can’t see a way out of it either; he doesn’t run nearly fast enough to escape on foot.</p><p><a id="return10" name="return10"></a>“We’d bring an old boombox his parents kept in the den and treat it like a real game,” Rachel continues. “The anthems, walk-up songs, ‘OK Blue Jays’ in the middle of the seventh.”<sup>[<a href="#note10">10</a>]</sup> Her laugh is breathy and warm, and her eyes crinkle at the corners easily, like joy is an old friend. It makes it a little impossible to hate her the way he wants to. “Even then,” she says, “even at ten years old, his song was ‘Tom Sawyer’ because Clint loves Rush and Patrick... he loves Clint.”</p><p>Together, they watch Patrick swing at and miss Sebastien’s next pitch.</p><p>“When we went away to college together. All the years he bounced around the farm system. The day he broke off our engagement. Even when he wanted a fresh start with a new team. Through all of that, it was always Rush.”</p><p>“Why are you telling me this?” David asks. </p><p>“I’ve known Patrick nearly my whole life,” she says, watching him step out of the batter’s box and take a moment to recompose himself, “and he’s never been very good at communicating certain things. Things that might hurt people he cares about. Things that might disappoint them.” She shakes her head like she’s been a victim of that same struggle. Then again, he supposes she has. “But some things—things like happiness. And appreciation. And love…” He watches the corner of her mouth twist up toward a smile. “Some things are easy.” </p><p>Patrick steps back into the box, grimly determined, and finally Rachel turns to look David square in the eye.</p><p>“This is the first time he’s changed his walk-up song in twenty years. Just makes you wonder if maybe there’s something he’s trying to say.”</p><p><em>I like you, David,</em> Patrick had said once. <em>I like you so much it scares me a little.</em></p><p>
  <em>I’d just like to keep spending time with you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I want all of you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This summer has been the best thing that’s ever happened to me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You gave me hope, too, David.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You still do.</em>
</p><p>Oh god.</p><p>David looks up in time to see Sebastien’s fastball sail across the plate, Patrick’s swing just a fraction of a second too late. It’s the third strike, and he kicks at the dirt in frustration, and suddenly David can’t stand the idea that he won’t be there when this game ends, that he won’t be able to bundle Patrick up in his arms and soothe the sting of the loss or smother him with pride at the win.</p><p>Because David loves him. And he’s pretty fucking sure that Patrick loves him, too. That Patrick’s been telling him all along, and he’s just been too afraid to listen.</p><p>He hopes it isn’t too late to start.</p><p>Wide-eyed, he turns to look at Rachel and then to his sister and Stevie watching them carefully from across the bar. </p><p>“How fast can we get to Toronto?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>It turns out, the answer is <em>very.</em> </p><p>Stevie already has a plane waiting for them, and when David follows the other three aboard to find his overnight bag there at his seat, packed and ready, he does the most un-David thing he’s ever done in his life and pulls her into a hug. She lets out an <em>oof</em> as he squeezes her into his chest, but her arms come up awkwardly around his back and he has to bury his smile in her hair. </p><p>Rachel and Alexis <em>aww</em> together, and he flips them both off behind Stevie’s back.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>David’s normal plan for a flight would be to pass out as quickly as possible and only wake up again when they land, but there’s no way he could sleep now if he wanted to.</p><p>He’s going to see Patrick. </p><p>As soon as he can take his seatbelt off, he’s up and pacing because even though he knows it’s illogical, he feels like if he doesn’t keep moving they’ll get there slower somehow. And as Harry told Sally on New Year’s Eve, when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible. The truth is that David realized that months ago. He’d started imagining a future with Patrick nearly the same day he’d found him alone on David’s baseball diamond, and since he can’t manage to turn back time, he’ll have to settle for getting started on that future as soon as possible.</p><p>“Here, let’s turn on the game,” Rachel says, pulling him back down into a seat. He grumbles but goes willingly, knowing he’s driving everyone crazy with his restlessness, and she brings up a live feed of the game on her phone.</p><p>The score is tied at zero in the top of the sixth, and Patrick is there crouched behind home plate, armored in his blue protective gear. Even if David hadn’t known he was in the game from seeing him at bat earlier, he still would have recognized Patrick instantly—the beautiful, familiar shape of him—and David’s entire body aches with longing. God, he can’t believe he thought he could somehow give this up. He can’t believe he almost had.</p><p>The batter for the Red Sox hits a ball toward third, where the baseman scoops it up and throws it to first with plenty of time to get the out. “And that will send us into the bottom of the sixth,” the commentator says, “where Smith, Brewer, and Wolters will challenge Raine, who has yet to give up a hit here in Game 2 of the ALDS.”</p><p>David scoffs because <em>of course</em> Sebastien would be doing this well, and as much as he was only concerned about Patrick before and not the game, now he desperately wants to see the Blue Jays win. Sebastien can’t be allowed to think he’s somehow better than Patrick. Or any of his teammates. Or the dirt clinging to the bottom of their shoes.</p><p>The commercial break ends as Smith comes to the plate, and when they get a glimpse of Patrick warming up in the background, David’s knee starts to bounce. Rachel reaches across to give it a squeeze, flashing him an understanding smile.</p><p>“You know, I threw up the morning of his last college game.” She laughs self-consciously. “First round of the College World Series, and I was more nervous than he was.”</p><p>That sounds like the Patrick he knows, cool and collected under pressure. And sure enough, as he steps to the plate after Smith strikes out, the crowd once again singing along to “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now,” Patrick looks as confident as ever, serious and focused but calm as he settles into place, the bat in his hands shifting in tight little circles as he waits for the throw.</p><p>Sebastien takes his time, and when the first pitch finally comes, it flies high and inside, not far from Patrick’s face, and he has to jump back to ensure he doesn’t get hit.</p><p>“Hey!” David cries, incensed on his behalf, but Patrick doesn’t look shaken. If anything he only looks more determined as he steps back into the batter’s box. </p><p>The commentators don’t make nearly as big of a deal of the near-decapitation as David wants them to. They aren’t even talking about Patrick at all now, which is rude. Instead, they’re rambling on about pitchers who have thrown no-hitters this season, and while it’s apparently not a very common feat, he wishes they’d sound a little less impressed with Sebastien than they do.</p><p>David takes a deep breath in and blows it slowly out again.</p><p>Sebastien nods at the signal from his catcher, and the next pitch comes fast and straight. Patrick gets a clean swing at it, making good contact, and David inches forward in his seat, hands clenched together tightly, as the ball soars out toward deep right field. </p><p><a id="return11" name="return11"></a>The outfielder snags it easily at the edge of the warning track, and just like that, Patrick is out.<sup>[<a href="#note11">11</a>]</sup></p><p>“Fuck,” David mutters, collapsing back into his seat, as Stevie and Rachel grumble their own disappointment. </p><p>He listens to rather than watches the last out of the inning, only sitting up again once Patrick is back behind the plate at the top of the seventh. Even with David’s limited baseball knowledge, it seems clear why Patrick was called up. He’s only been part of the team for a month, but he’s just as steady and sure as he was in Schitt’s Creek, signaling plays and snatching breaking balls out of the dirt and popping up to smoothly snag a couple of high, nearly-wild pitches like the professional he is. Eventually he has to trot out to the mound and have a talk with his pitcher, and David knows because he’d asked once that Patrick is trying to calm him down, to give him a confidence boost so that he can finish the inning strong. Still, it takes them far too many pitches to get their third out, but even though they allow a couple of runners to get on base, no one scores, and they manage to head into the bottom of the seventh inning still tied at zero.</p><p>Things don’t get any less tense from there, with Sebastien easily striking out the next three batters and the Jays sticking with the same pitcher, who struggles his way through the top of the eighth.</p><p>The commentators still seem to be more interested in discussing Sebastien’s pitching than anything else happening in the game, but at least this time there’s mention of something that reignites a little of David’s hope. </p><p>“The thing about facing Raine,” one of the two voices says, “is that he gives up home runs. He’s allowed 38 this season—that’s the second most in the American League. If someone could just get a piece of one of these pitches, Toronto could break out of this.”</p><p>Before they can see if the Jays will manage exactly that, however, Rachel has to turn off her phone as they prepare for landing. They catch a glimpse of Rogers Centre on their descent, the bright lights and a flash of the green field through the open roof. Not knowing what’s happening down there is excruciating, and as they tumble into a waiting car for the short ride to the stadium, David isn’t sure if he’s more nervous about the outcome of the game or what he’s going to have to do when it’s over. </p><p>Alexis has already made some calls to get them smoothly into the stadium, and just a few minutes later, they’re skidding into the Rose family suite and pushing their way out onto the balcony, David clutching at a stitch in his side, as the Jays’ center fielder catches a fly ball to send it into the bottom of the ninth, blessedly still scoreless. If Toronto can just find a way to get a run here, they’ll win the game.</p><p>David focuses in on Patrick immediately, watching him jog over to the dugout, relieved to know that it’s really him, that he’s really, actually, truly here and not just an image on a tv screen.</p><p>“Kids!” His father lights up at the sight of them. “When Alexis called to say you all were coming to the game, I thought maybe she had gotten into your mother’s sleeping pills again.” David worries for a moment that he’s going to have to explain, but as always, Johnny asks no questions, instead shooing a few of the staff back inside to make room for the four of them. “It’s good to see you. Sit down. Sit down.”</p><p>“Thanks for, uh, letting us come,” David pants, collapsing into a seat as he tries to catch his breath after literally running the whole way from the car. There’s no one in the world he would run for except Patrick Brewer, and he can only hope that it will be worth it in the end.</p><p>“You both know you’re welcome anytime. That’s your last name on the door, too.”</p><p>“Thanks, Dad,” Alexis coos, and Johnny keeps beaming at them. It’s clear he really does mean it—he wants them here whenever they want to be—and David thinks he’ll have to make more of an effort next year to let his dad talk him into coming to a few games, regardless of what happens tonight. He won’t make it too easy, of course; he can’t let Johnny know just how much he’s come to enjoy the sport, but if it will make him happy, David can roll his eyes and give him a put-upon sigh and ultimately concede to putting in a rare appearance or two.</p><p>The sitting is short-lived, and they all rise to their feet with the rest of the crowd as Smith comes up to bat once again. There’s a nervous but excited hum vibrating through the stadium as he steps into the batter’s box, the crisp October air limned with neon possibility. It’s that electric feeling David has come to associate with baseball but cranked up to a thousand. Absolutely anything could happen in these next few pitches, and anticipation shivers up and down his spine.</p><p>Out on the mound, Sebastien stills. Breathes. Slingshots into motion, launching a fastball that just misses the outside edge of the plate. </p><p>Smith doesn’t swing, and the umpire calls the first ball.</p><p>Stevie pumps her fist beside him, and David tucks a smile into the curve of his cheek. She never had a problem making it clear how little she liked Sebastien, even while David was still dating him, and it’s nice to see that some things don’t change.</p><p>The next pitch is another ball, this one down in the dirt. Sebastien must have thrown over a hundred pitches now, but David’s hope that he’s starting to tire is extinguished when he sends another pitch hurtling toward the plate, hot and fast, beating Smith’s swing and earning him strike one.</p><p>The whole stadium seems to get quieter then: fifty thousand people holding their breath. </p><p>It takes several no’s before Sebastien nods at a signal this time. When he lets loose, the ball arcs down low over the plate, and Smith chases after it, meeting the pitch with a solid thwack and rocketing off toward first base as fast as his feet can carry him. The cheers that rise up in response are short-lived though; the ball bounces straight at the shortstop, who scoops it up and throws it to first before Smith can reach the base.</p><p>The umpire there calls him out, and the crowd heaves out a collective sigh in disappointment.</p><p>“Now batting,” the stadium announcer starts to call, and Stevie grabs David’s hand as Alexis and Rachel reach out to claw at his shoulders. “Your catcher, number 12, Patrick Brewer!” The sound of Starship fills the stadium, and David’s heart beats fast and hard and loud as Patrick walks toward the plate to a chorus of thousands of voices singing at the top of their lungs, David and Rachel and Alexis and Stevie and even Johnny’s amongst them, “Nothing’s gonna stop us now!” </p><p>It’s a promise, David thinks, sealed in the voices of the crowd. For this game. For their future. Nothing—not David’s fears, not Patrick’s past, and definitely not Sebastien fucking Raine—is going to stop them from getting everything they’ve ever wanted.</p><p>Patrick steps into the batter’s box and stares Sebastien down. </p><p>He looks focused. </p><p>Ready.</p><p>He swings hard at the first pitch Sebastien sends his way. The ball slips just under the end of his bat, and David crushes Stevie’s fingers between his as the umpire calls the strike.</p><p>His heart rabbits faster, crawling up into his throat to flutter against the muscles working there as he tries to swallow down some of his nerves.</p><p>Patrick steps away, unfastens and refastens the velcro on his gloves, pulling them snug around his wrists. His shoulders roll back and down as he steps up to the plate again, swinging the bat a few times before he settles it over his shoulder and waits.</p><p>And waits.</p><p>Sebastien takes his time before pulling up straight and tall, ball tucked into his glove. In a flash of motion, he hurls another pitch Patrick’s way. It’s too high, but then it breaks, curving down neatly into the catcher’s mitt for strike two.</p><p>“Fuck,” Rachel mutters as David’s shoulders ratchet up even closer to his ears.</p><p>Johnny shakes his head, lamenting, “Tough curveball.”</p><p>The crowd noise rises and drops again, crashing like a wave, and this time David is definitely holding his breath right along with them. He crosses the fingers on his free hand, as well as his toes inside his shoes, just for good measure; he’d cross his eyes, too, if it wouldn’t mean taking them off of Patrick to do so.</p><p><em>Please,</em> he thinks as hard as he can. <em>Please please please please.</em></p><p>They go through it all once again—Patrick tightening his gloves, taking a few loose swings before he settles in to wait patiently for the pitch, Sebastien shaking his head at his catcher’s calls before he finally nods, taking an entire lifetime to draw himself up into his pitching stance.</p><p>Sebastien stills, and Patrick stills, and the entire stadium stills with them.</p><p>In the fraction of a second where David blinks, the ball goes jetting toward the plate, and Patrick moves, stepping into it, hips swinging toward the ball as his arms follow right behind. The sharp crack of the bat echoes through the night, a sound David will never forget for the rest of his life. </p><p>The ball arcs higher and higher out over left field, flying deep, as the outfielder runs back toward the wall.</p><p>Back over the grass.</p><p>Back across the warning track.</p><p>He holds his glove ready and waiting for the ball that’s finally curving back down to earth.</p><p>He leaps.</p><p>Stretches.</p><p>Reaches.</p><p>And the entire stadium erupts into a riot of sound as the ball passes just beyond the end of his glove, landing amongst fans who jostle each other to come up with it. </p><p>Stevie nearly tackles David to the ground in celebration, as his sister and Rachel jump up and down behind them, wrapped up together in a hug. </p><p>But David only has eyes for one person—the man taking a victory lap around the bases and coming home again with his arms in the air, where all of his teammates wait to greet him as he crosses the plate. There are high fives and fist bumps and full-on body checks, and then a whole cooler of Gatorade is dumped over his head, but through it all, there’s a smile brighter than the sun, and David cannot wait to celebrate this night with him.</p><p><em>Oh fuck.</em> </p><p>Reality snaps him out of his celebration as he remembers that he has to actually make up with Patrick before that can happen. And he doesn’t really have the first clue how to go about it. The whole plan thus far had just been to get here. They hadn’t really talked about what would happen once they did. </p><p>He looks pleadingly around at the three of them. “What do I do now?” </p><p>It’s not like he can just pop into the locker room or whatever, like, <em>hey I know this is awkward since you’ve just won a huge game and I’ve been ignoring you for the last month, but I’ve come to my senses, is there any chance you might still want to date me?</em> He has a brief moment of missing Ray and the easy way he’d managed to get ahold of Patrick the first time David had gone to Schitt’s Creek, not that David would really know what to say even if Ray could somehow get Patick here in front of him tonight.</p><p>“You’ve gotta do something big, David,” Alexis suggests. “Get his attention and let him know you’re serious. Like when Chris flew me to Bali as an apology for missing our three-week anniversary because he had to be at a premiere.”</p><p>“Which Chris was that?” David asks.</p><p>“Mmm, Pine, maybe? I don’t know, I dated like three of the four.”</p><p>Stevie cuts in, gleefully, “Is that the same one who gave David the fake number?”</p><p>“It wasn’t fake!” He points an accusatory finger at her face. “You know as well as I do that the ink wasn’t dry when— No, we’re not getting into this again. The point is, what the hell am I going to do?”</p><p>“I might have an idea,” Rachel says, a keen glint in her eye as she leans in conspiratorially. “Have you ever seen <em>Notting Hill</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>The lanyard of the press pass digs into the back of David's neck where he can't stop tugging on it. </p><p>"But seriously, what if he doesn't want to see me?" he whispers to Stevie for the fourth time in the ten minutes since they took a seat in the back row amidst the members of the media here to cover the post-game press conference. On the dais, the coach or someone is talking about tonight's win and the preparations for Monday’s game in Boston.</p><p>The man sitting in front of them shushes him over his shoulder, and David flushes a deep crimson and goes back to trying to strangle himself with his lanyard to avoid the potential embarrassment he's about to face.</p><p>It's worth it, he reminds himself, forcing his hands away from the lanyard and down into his lap. Patrick is worth it. And no matter what happens, at least he'll be able to say that he tried. </p><p>Finally, the first round of interviewing draws to a close, and David closes his eyes and just tries to keep breathing, steady and slow. Alexis lays a hand on his knee where it's shaking against her leg, and he covers it with his own, giving her fingers a quick squeeze in thanks. Rachel had assured them that Patrick would be here, that the press would want to talk to anyone who hit a walk-off home run, especially one that ended a no-hitter in the postseason, and David still isn't totally sure if he's hoping that she's right or wrong. This would all certainly be easier to do in private, but Alexis is right—big mistakes require big gestures in apology, and this is the biggest apology he'll ever be able to manage.</p><p>An excited murmur runs through the room as David hears a chair being pulled across a carpeted floor, and Alexis squeezes his hand tighter, and when he opens his eyes, Patrick is there, freshly showered and cozy in his team hoodie, and gorgeous, so gorgeous, looking flushed and maybe a little overwhelmed but so, so happy, and suddenly David can't do this. He can't run the risk of ruining this day for him. This is his moment, his big win, and he deserves this spotlight shining out on all his talent and hard work. David can’t fuck that up by making this about himself instead. </p><p>“I can’t do this,” he whispers to his sister.</p><p>But before she can reply the questions begin, and there's nowhere for him to run without being caught out. So he buries his head in his hands and just tries not to hyperventilate here where he'll only draw attention to himself.  </p><p>"The young woman in pink," someone says, and David's heart drops into his stomach.</p><p>"Alexis," she says in introduction, "Rose Family Media. And my brother is the one who wants to ask a question actually."</p><p>She prods him with the toe of one of her Valentino booties, and he shakes his head violently. </p><p>He's going to kill her.</p><p>He's absolutely going to murder her. </p><p>But he can't just yet because now all the eyes in the room are on him, and instead he has to force himself to sit up tall and meet Patrick's gaze. </p><p>Shock doesn't begin to cover what he sees in those much-missed eyes, and Patrick collapses back in his seat as if he's been knocked down.</p><p>The moderator looks to David expectantly. "Sir, your question?"</p><p>Fuck. David supposes he's doing this after all. He's doing this if he can just remember what he's supposed to ask. It was something about— "Um, I-I was informed, recently, that you— you've been, uh, using the same walk-up song." The words tumble around and bump up against each other as they fall from his mouth, but he's pretty sure they're at least coming out in the right order. Mostly. "The same one your whole career. Until you, um, until you came to Toronto. What..." He takes a deep breath and blows it out again. "What made you change it?"</p><p>Patrick looks at him carefully, more guarded than David's ever seen him, and for a moment he thinks that he isn't going to answer the question, that maybe he's even going to request that David be removed from the room. But then he licks his lips and leans in closer to the mic again.</p><p>"It's a reminder. Of one of the best weeks of my life." David's heart pounds in his throat. "I wanted that with me, out there on the field. And I— I was trying to get someone's attention, too, but... I wasn't really sure if it would work."</p><p><em>He wanted it with him. He wanted</em> me <em>with him,</em> David thinks, and his hands shake where he squeezes them between his own knees. "What if—"</p><p>"I'm sorry," the moderator interrupts. "Just one question each."</p><p>"No," Patrick says, holding up a hand to wave him off. "Let him ask."</p><p>David looks to the moderator, who shrugs, and back again to Patrick, who gives him the smallest of nods. It’s the encouragement David needs, and he lets it fill him up and does what he came here to do.</p><p>"What if it did? What if— What if that someone finally heard you, and they wanted to apologize for walking away?" He glances around nervously, suddenly remembering that there are members of the press everywhere and cameras, too, that whatever he says here is possibly going to be reported to the world, but he doesn't let it stop him. “It's just that, they're... damaged, you know? Damaged goods.” </p><p>Everything is hushed and still, and for a moment it’s like being back out in the stands, the whole crowd waiting to see if Patrick’s going to strike out or score. Except this time David is the one up to bat, and all he can do now is swing away.</p><p>“But what if they realized that— that with you they felt whole. And happy. Maybe the happiest they've ever been." Even from the back row, he can see the way Patrick's chest shakes as he draws in a breath, and David brushes away the hot tear that rolls down his cheek. "But they were hurt and insecure and... scared… And now they're here. Here to say, 'I'm sorry I assumed the worst.' And 'I'm sorry that I didn't let you explain.'" He clears his throat, wanting the rest of this to come out as loud and clear as he can possibly make it. "But most of all, 'I'm sorry that I never got the chance to tell you that I love you.'"</p><p>The silence in the room stretches on, long and excruciating, no one daring to move or even breathe. Or maybe it only feels that way because the only person David can see is Patrick, sitting frozen on the dais, his eyes wide.</p><p>Strangely, David remembers suddenly that this is supposed to be a question, probably because he's nearly hysterical now that his admission is just out there in the open, so he adds, "What, um, what would you say to that?"</p><p>All the heads in the room swivel back in Patrick’s direction, waiting along with David for whatever Patrick’s answer will be.</p><p>It takes another few seconds, but finally a radiant smile crests like a sunrise, the glow of it washing across his boyish face. If David had thought Patrick had been happy crossing home plate at the end of the game, it’s nothing compared to the joy on his face now, and David hopes that with all these cameras someone is getting video of it because he wants to look at it for the rest of his fucking life. </p><p>"I guess,” Patrick says, “I'd say maybe the ending of <em>Notting Hill</em> isn't so ridiculous after all."</p><p>He shakes his head fondly, and David thinks, <em>I told you so,</em> laughing, hopeful and happy, for the first time in weeks. </p><p>"Now," Patrick says, still grinning like a fool, "who's got the next question?"</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>As soon as Patrick's part of the press conference ends, Alexis and Rachel and Stevie run interference on all the reporters looking for details so that David can slip into the hall for a moment alone. He needs to catch his breath and settle some of the adrenaline still rushing through his veins, but he only manages to close his eyes for a few seconds before a welcome voice breaks through the quiet.</p><p>"Come with me?" Patrick asks, and David opens his eyes to find him holding out his hand. He takes it without hesitation and lets Patrick lead him along until they're spilling out onto the field. The stadium is so much larger than Brebner's Park, and David wonders what it must be like to stand here in front of screaming fans filling all these seats and try to focus on something as simple as swinging a bat at a ball.</p><p>"You played so well tonight," he tells Patrick, who, in spite of the fact that they're still holding hands, is looking at David like he still can't quite believe he's here.</p><p>"Thank you." He blushes sweetly, and David wonders how long it's appropriate to wait to kiss him. "I really wasn't sure you'd be watching."</p><p>"I wasn't at first," he admits. "We opened the SoHo store today, and Stevie took me out for a drink after. It was, well, a trap, I guess. But the game was on. I still don't know if she planned that part, actually. But I saw you." He brushes his thumb across the back of Patrick's warm and steady hand. "I heard you."</p><p>Patrick shakes his head, nonplussed. "And you just... got on a plane?"</p><p>"Pretty much." David shrugs, and they fall back into silence. Whatever it might be like during a game, it's peaceful now, here on the field, and he's happy to just stand here holding Patrick's hand for a while.</p><p>"I'm sorry," Patrick says eventually. "I really should have told you about Rachel. I didn't think about how suspicious it would look that—"</p><p>"It's okay." He gives Patrick's fingers a reassuring squeeze. "Really. I should have trusted you more. Or I guess maybe trusted myself. Because I do. Trust you, I mean. And I know I kind of sprung all this on you tonight, and it's fine if— if you need some time to decide what—"</p><p>"David."</p><p>His heart kicks wildly in his chest at the sound of his name in Patrick's mouth once more. "Yeah?"</p><p>"Can we talk about this later?"</p><p>"Oh." He rolls his shoulders back and tries not to let his disappointment show. He meant it, the offer to give Patrick time to decide, but of course he’d hoped Patrick wouldn’t need it. "Yeah, you probably have, like, celebrations or something to get to."</p><p>"No." Patrick chuckles. "No, I just— I’d like to kiss you now. If that's okay."</p><p>"Yeah?" he breathes, dizzy from the whiplash of his emotions. "Yes. Please."</p><p>And then Patrick's lips are on his, soft but insistent, and David scrabbles at his shoulders and just tries to hold on. Hands slip up across his back, pulling him in close and closer still, as Patrick's tongue slides against his. It's not a <em>hello</em> kiss, not a tentative <em>I've missed you</em> kiss.  It's solid and intimate and achingly familiar, the kind of kiss that says <em>I know you</em> and <em>I know what you like</em> and <em>I want to spend the rest of my life giving it to you.</em></p><p>It's a kiss that feels like the first one of forever.</p><p>Eventually, Patrick pulls away laughing. "I can't believe you gave me a romcom ending."</p><p>David doesn't even try to hide his smile in a twisted corner of his mouth; he lets it free, and it grows even wider when he sees his happiness mirrored on Patrick's face. "Well, I would have given you a sports movie one instead, but someone told me those are for people who don't want all the making out."</p><p>Strong hands pull him in for another kiss, and another, and another.</p><p>"I love you," Patrick says once they've managed to part long enough to catch their breath again.</p><p>"I love you." David drops a kiss to the corner of his lips and steps back, letting his hand slide down to find Patrick's again, twining their fingers together. "You're wrong though."</p><p>Patrick gives him a curious, sideways look.</p><p>"It's not an ending. Or at least I hope not."</p><p>That beautiful smile finds its way back onto Patrick's face, and he gives David's hand a hard squeeze as together they look out over the field.</p><p>"No," Patrick says. "This is only the start."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a id="note10" name="note10"></a><sup>10</sup> Released in 1983, “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qag6w_Tp50A"><span class="u">OK Blue Jays</span></a>” is played before the traditional “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh inning stretch (the period between the top and bottom of the seventh inning) at all Blue Jays home games. [<a href="#return10">▲</a>]</p><p><a id="note11" name="note11"></a><sup>11</sup> The warning track is a non-grass track (typically clay or rubber), about 15’ wide in MLB stadiums, that borders the field to alert players that they are getting close to the outfield wall/fence. [<a href="#return11">▲</a>]</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p> </p><p>Thanks to every single one of you who has stuck with me this far. I’ll have a short epilogue for you next week to finish out the story. 💗💗💗</p><p> </p><p>In the meantime, you know I can’t wrap things up without one more round of fun facts: As of the publication of this chapter, there have been 305 no-hitters in the history of Major League Baseball, for an average of only 2.1 per season, which is why it’s a big deal here that Sebastien is on the verge of pitching one—it really isn’t all that common. (There are 2,430 games played in a modern MLB season, which means that on average only 0.086% of games in a given season result in a no-hitter for one team or the other.) Even more rare though, only one player has ever managed to do what Patrick does here, break up a no-hitter with a walk-off home run. That feat belongs to Josh Harrison of the Pittsburgh Pirates (at the time), who in a 2017 game against the Los Angeles Dodgers, ended pitcher Rich Hill’s no-hitter by <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j3_xmSDD1Hg">knocking a game-winning home run over the left field wall</a> in the 10th inning.</p><p> </p><p>Patrick’s number, 12, is actually one of the only two numbers that have been retired by the Blue Jays, which was done in honor of Roberto Alomar. (The other is Roy Halladay’s number, 32.) Therefore, Patrick wouldn’t actually be able to wear number 12, but it’s his number in “The M.V.P.” and this is fiction, so I’m sticking with it anyway.</p><p> </p><p>While generally the player names in this fic are entirely made up, I threw in a couple of shout-outs in this chapter to real players, though they don’t play for the Blue Jays. The other two batters mentioned from the Jays’ lineup in this game are named for my two favorite real-world catchers, Tony Wolters of the Colorado Rockies and Will Smith of the Dodgers. I watched a lot of both of them while finishing this fic, and they’ve both definitely influenced my view of Patrick as a player, especially Will Smith. Plus, my beta, baseball buddy, and beautiful friend Claire is a Dodgers fan, so I certainly couldn’t end this fic without writing in a Dodgers reference somewhere in here for her; sorry I couldn’t let Smith get any hits though—sacrifices must be made in the name of story, lol. But at least he and the rest of your boys in blue are 2020 World Series champs now! ⚾💗</p><p> </p><p>Last but not least, one random night Claire had the thought that we should make an MLB player page for Patrick, so <a href="https://64.media.tumblr.com/21fd3f7e0c64e9e8c00d0fe206a628c8/d38495ec3afff262-16/s2048x3072/4cbe54744ffcf2afc892b6eab835a31e673d9bea.jpg">here it is in all its glory</a>, with his stats as of the end of this game.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. extra innings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, friends, we have come to the end of this story, and I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey. This is the longest solo project I've ever written, and you know I can’t end things without first throwing out some appreciation for everyone who helped make it happen. </p><p>Thank you to every single one of you who has read, bookmarked, kudos’d, or commented on this fic, liked or reblogged or replied to my tumblr posts about it, or sent me asks about my progress as I was still writing it. I appreciate your support more than I can possibly say. I know a whole lot of you aren’t baseball fans, and I’m so glad you decided to take a chance on this story anyway. Thank you for letting me share this thing that I love with you.</p><p>Thank you to EJ, without whom this fic literally wouldn’t exist; to Darcy, for always letting me talk through sticking points even though we write in entirely different fandoms these days; and to JCam and [redacted] for reading an ugly draft version of this when I needed a dose of cheerleading and validation to get me through the editing process.</p><p>And finally, thank you once more to my immeasurably helpful beta, Claire, for talking me off of every ledge, for questioning me when I needed it, for Rush and red plastic cups, for keeping an eye on all the stylistic things I do far too often for my own good, for sharing your love of the Dodgers, for that one headcanon I can’t not think of now every time I see Randal Grichuk or Dansby Swanson, for Thursday nights, and for so willingly reading countless versions of every chapter of this fic, whether I changed a section or a word. I honestly could not have done this without you.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Where the fuck is it?” David pulls the last few items out of his carry-on and upends it over the bed, but nothing else falls out. He rifles through the pile once more, but his passport is still nowhere to be found.</p><p>With a weighty groan, he collapses back into the pillows. It’s not the end of the world if he’s left it at the apartment, but he really doesn’t want to have to go all the way back across the city to find it; he’d been hoping to at least pop down to enjoy the end of the party—say hello to a few of Patrick’s teammates, have a drink or two, maybe sneak away with a whole tray of those blue crab and grapefruit canapés. Still, it’s not like they’re going to let him cross the border without his passport, so he’ll have to go one way or the other. </p><p>His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he nearly drops it on his face in his haste to see if it’s Patrick. There’s no game today, of course, but Patrick had flown straight from Kansas City to Minneapolis, where David is going to surprise him tomorrow before the All-Star Game. It’s not the exact anniversary of the day they met, but it’s the best David could do between all his work here and the Jays’ road trip.</p><p>The text isn’t from Patrick though, and David tries not to be disappointed.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="header1"></span>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> How’s tonight’s panic attack coming along?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Who says I’m panicking?</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Alexis says she hasn’t seen you all night so either you’ve gone ahead and taken a Xanax and passed out or you’re well on your way to a panic attack.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> And unless you’ve learned how to sleeptext I’m guessing it’s not the first option.</span>
</p>
</div><p>He shoots back a picture of his middle finger, but then he realizes maybe she could help.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Stevie</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> My best and dearest and oldest friend</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Whatever it is the answer is no.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> You don’t even know what I’m going to ask</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> You wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t going to be a pain in my ass.</span>
</p>
</div><p>She has a point, but he refuses to concede it. </p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> You’re much closer to the apartment, and I just need you to check if I left my passport there</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> And maybe run it out here if it is</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> I’m busy.</span>
</p>
</div><p>She and Jake are in an off-again period, so that probably isn’t true. However, before David can figure out how to convince her, he gets another text.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Pocket inside your bomber.</span>
</p>
</div><p>He hops up off the bed and opens the closet where the outfit he’d planned to wear tomorrow is hanging. Sure enough, his passport is tucked safely inside the interior pocket, yet another in the long line of reasons she’s the best PA he could ask for.</p>
<p></p><div class="phone">
  <p class="messagebody">
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> I love you</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Ugh Patrick is really rubbing off on you.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="breply"><span class="hide"><em>David:</em></span> Tomorrow, if I’m lucky</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> Gross.</span><br/>
<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="hide"><em>Stevie:</em></span> I can’t believe I set you up for that one.</span>
</p>
</div><p>David laughs and slips his phone back into his pocket as he heads out the door. The mess on his bed will still be there waiting for him to repack it all into his carry-on when the party is over. For now he can at least try to have a little fun.</p><p>He slips quietly past the lounge where his father is holding court so that he doesn’t get caught up in yet another conversation with Roland about the Bears’ postseason prospects this year—as much as he’s come to enjoy baseball as a sport, David’s still not interested in the day-to-day minutiae of running a team. Especially if that involves talking to Roland.</p><p>Downstairs, the sound of his mother’s voice grows louder as he approaches the hall. She’s apparently started in on the Sondheim portion of the evening, which means there’s still at least another hour to go of her supposedly impromptu performance. He’s not sure that anyone buys it, certainly not anyone who’s attended more than one of these All-Star parties and discovered that the performance is the same every year, right down to the teasing banter between songs, but there are always new players and new guests ready to be awed by the elusive Moira Rose. </p><p>She gives him a wink as she launches into a <i>Gypsy</i> medley that he’s always found a little too on the nose, but he gives her a smile and slips past the crowd, toward the kitchen and all the catered treasures it holds. Just as he reaches for the door, however, a friendly voice calls out to him.</p><p>“Oh good, you’re alive. Alexis was getting worked up thinking you’d bailed and left her here alone. Like, what am I, invisible?” Rachel reaches up and pulls him down into a bear hug. “It’s so good to see you.”</p><p>“You, too,” he says and really means it. Over the last year he’s gotten to know her well, and he gets why Patrick had nearly married her. She’s sharp and funny and generous, and a piece of him really hopes that his sister will make her an official part of the family someday soon. “So what do you make of the most exclusive party in Canadian baseball?”</p><p>She laughs, full and free. “I think I’m not nearly high enough or drunk enough for some of the things I’ve walked in on tonight.”</p><p>“Yeah, you learn to knock before you open any doors.” He shakes his head at the memory of some of the things he’s seen. Hell, some of the things he’s done.</p><p>“Still,” Rachel says, producing a joint from her pocket, “couldn’t hurt to partake.”</p><p>David isn’t going to argue with that and turns to lead her through the kitchen to the back garden, but she tilts her head down the hall instead and they head for the veranda. It’s a warm, clear night—a good night for baseball, David thinks—and he looks instinctively toward the diamond his father gifted him so long ago, seeing last year’s party flash before his eyes, a lone figure bathed in moonlight out on David’s diamond. </p><p>It had been a terrible gift for a ten-year-old who dreamed about runways in Paris, not running bases, but somehow that patch of grass has managed to bring him more happiness than he could have thought possible. Maybe his dad isn’t the world’s worst gift giver after all.</p><p>He blinks at the memory of last July, shaking his head, but it doesn’t fade. Squinting out toward the field, he sucks in a sharp breath. There <em>is</em> someone out there, and David knows without a doubt who it must be. Heart racing, he glances back at Rachel, and she nods out toward the distant silhouette.</p><p>“Go get him.”</p><p>And David’s off down the steps and across the lawn, McQueen oxfords sinking deep into the dewy grass, marching as quick as he can manage out toward the farthest part of the property, his feet matching the pace of his heartbeat thudding out <em>Patrick Patrick Patrick.</em></p><p>He stops short at the edge of the diamond, breathing in the soft, lazy scent of summer as a familiar figure tosses a ball straight into the air and swings leisurely as it falls back to earth. The hit connects with a muted thump, and the ball bounces out somewhere into left field.</p><p>“I think that’s a single at best,” David says, and Patrick is already grinning as he turns around. It’s been ten days since David’s seen him last, the Jays’ long road trip having taken him to Detroit and Chicago before Kansas City, and he’s such a welcome sight that David could cry.</p><p>Maybe he does. Just a little.</p><p>“Made it to second on an error,” Patrick returns, dropping the bat and stepping closer.  “And you obviously missed the invisible runner who made it home, too.”</p><p>“My mistake,” David squeezes out around his smile. Patrick stops a few feet in front of him, just far enough away that David can’t touch him the way he wants to. He’s a tease, through and through, and David shakes his head fondly. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>Patrick shrugs, all coy and cute and eminently kissable. “Maybe I just wanted to celebrate my husband’s birthday.”</p><p>David rolls his eyes. “It’s not my birthday. My birthday was more than a week ago, and I know you know that because you sent me an <em>unspecified</em> number of roses for it.”</p><p>“Oh, I’ll have to call the florist then because I didn’t order an <em>unspecified</em> number, I ordered thirty-th—”</p><p>“If you finish that sentence, I will divorce you right now.”</p><p>Patrick only grins wider. “No you won’t.” He taps twice against his wedding ring, and David gets a little tearier. It’s a gesture Patrick does before every at-bat now, though his ring is safely tucked away in his locker during games. The TV cameras don’t always catch it when David’s at home watching away games, but every time he does it, David has to bite his lip or pinch his thigh, do whatever he can to keep from tearing up like he is right now. He rubs a thumb across his own ring, a simple gold band he’s been wearing since they’d decided to elope before the start of spring training, not wanting to be apart again after the off-season without something more holding them together. </p><p>“I missed you,” he admits, and Patrick’s face, his shoulders, his whole entire body softens, and he finally steps in and pulls David into his arms, dropping a kiss against the curve of his neck as he holds him close.</p><p>“I missed you, too, boss.”</p><p>It’s ridiculous how much David has come to love that stupid nickname, but he has to put up the usual argument anyway. It’s tradition. “I’m not your boss.”</p><p>“Not technically,” Patrick replies, pulling back to flash him a tempting smirk, and finally, finally he kisses David properly.</p><p>Patrick kisses him with conviction, hands cradled along his jaw, the kind of kiss that says a million things at once: <em>hello</em> and <em>I missed you</em> and <em>I love you</em> and <em>I’m so happy you’re here.</em> Most of their kisses feel like that, actually, and David wonders if that will ever stop being true, if they’ll ever reach a point where every kiss doesn’t say quite so much, where maybe every one won’t need to. He doesn’t know, but he’s glad that he’ll get a whole lifetime to find out.</p><p>When they part, David slips the World Series ring off his right hand and slides it gingerly back onto Patrick’s instead, the same as he does every time his husband comes back home from an away series. He completes the trade-off with the usual kiss dropped on his cheek, and Patrick hums out a contented little breath the way he always does in response.</p><p>“So,” he says when David threads their fingers together between them, “what took you so long to get out here? Alexis was trying to find you and send you my way for like an hour.”</p><p>“Oh, um. I was packing. For Minneapolis.” David laughs a little at the surprise on Patrick’s face. Of course they’d both had the same idea. “I was gonna fly out in the morning and meet you. I thought we could celebrate our anniversary.”</p><p>Patrick’s surprise melts into a small, sweet smile, but because he’s still the same pest David fell in love with, he mimics David’s tone from a few moments ago, “It’s not our anniversary. Our anniversary was yesterday. Or maybe not until the end of next month, if you start counting from—”</p><p>David cuts him off with another press of his lips. It’s an argument they’ve had plenty, and as much fun as it is to relive the early days of their relationship, when all their hesitance and uncertainty was keeping them from reaching for everything they both wanted, it’s much more fun to wrap Patrick up in his arms again and kiss him senseless.</p><p>It’s not easy, this life they’re building together, when Patrick’s away and David has to split his time between Toronto and New York, but it’s worth it. They’ve both earned the chance to do the things they want to do and be the people they want to be, and David gets no greater thrill than watching his husband live out his dream, night after night. </p><p>In the meantime there are still text messages and late night calls, mismatched socks and green tea. There are long hours spent prepping their first Canadian store and off-season trips to Schitt’s Creek just for hot dogs. There are Patrick days and David days and all the shared ones in between, a whole lifetime of them blending together between home and away, losses and wins. And there are moments like this, just the two of them wrapped up in each other’s arms, right where they belong.</p><p>So David kisses his husband a little more ardently, simply because he can. Because it’s been ten days too long since he last had the privilege. Because he’s happy.</p><p>“Oh my god, get a room,” comes Alexis’s voice from somewhere behind him, and David peels one arm away from Patrick to flip her off behind his back, still kissing his husband until they’re both laughing too much to go on.</p><p>“It’s my diamond. I can do what I want on it,” David argues, turning to find not just Alexis with a bottle of champagne cradled in one arm, but Rachel tucked cozily under the other and Stevie trailing right behind, apparently also in on this little scheme of Patrick’s. She shrugs off the surprised look he gives her, trying and failing to hide a smile in the corner of her mouth.</p><p>Patrick looks down at David’s feet. “Technically you’re not on it though.” </p><p>“He’s not wrong,” Stevie adds because she’s an absolute menace.</p><p>David knows that. Of course he does. He’s spent decades avoiding this place, making sure never to set a toe on a single blade of grass growing on this patch of dirt. But a year ago he had done it, walked right out and dropped a baseball into the hand of a man he’d thought he’d never see again, and it had been the first in a series of choices that have led him precisely here.</p><p>So he rolls his eyes and takes a step forward, planting both feet firmly in the short grass of the field, sticking his tongue out at Patrick and then his best friend, his sister, and her girlfriend in turn. “Happy now?”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes are bright with sincerity as he crowds in to press a smiling kiss under the line of David’s jaw. “Always. You?”</p><p>David wriggles around in discomfort, but they both know it’s all for show. “Yeah,” he says as if it pains him. “I’m happy.” But here, surrounded by the people he loves most in the world, he’s never meant it more.</p><p>“So are we gonna play or not?” Rachel asks, already ducking away from Alexis to grab a ball and head toward the pitcher’s mound. </p><p>Stevie scoops up the bat as Alexis drops down to have a seat right there in the grass, sipping champagne straight from the bottle and cheering, “Go, babe! You’ve got this!” Even in the faint moonlight, David can see Rachel blush.</p><p>“Well?” Patrick asks.</p><p>The David of a year ago would never have even considered it, but it doesn’t take any time at all to decide now. “I bat next,” he calls toward Stevie. “But I draw the line at running the bases.”</p><p>“I’ll pinch run for you,” Patrick agrees, and the kiss he plants on David is electric, his whole body humming and alight. “Happy birthday, David,” he whispers against his lips.</p><p>“Happy anniversary, Patrick.” </p><p>David plops down in the grass beside his sister, who gives him a warm smile and passes over the bottle so that he can take a swig. They both cheer every time Rachel sends a zippy pitch straight over the plate and again as Stevie knocks a line drive out along the first base line, not caring in the least about teams or sides. David trash talks the catcher while he strikes out, and Rachel intentionally walks Patrick when they finally give him a turn at bat, and Alexis somehow crushes a ball out into the wide, black night on her very first swing.</p><p>Laughter rises up from every corner of the field, blending seamlessly with the slow, sweet sound of the crickets and frogs. </p><p>And even though baseball still isn’t the most important thing in the world, looking around at these people he loves, who fill his life with joy, laughing and radiant in the summer night, David can’t imagine his life without it.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can find me on tumblr as <a href="http://wild-aloof-rebel.tumblr.com">wild-aloof-rebel</a> (my Schitt's Creek blog) or <a href="http://hudders-and-hiddles.tumblr.com">hudders-and-hiddles</a> (my main).</p></blockquote></div></div>
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